


What little birds do

by Perelynn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-07
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:34:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perelynn/pseuds/Perelynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark wants to thank Sandor Clegane for saving her from angry mob. Small thing, but this gives the whole War of Five Kings a new turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Sansa hugged herself, suddenly cold. "Why are you always so hateful? I was thanking you . . ."_

 _"Just as if I was one of those true knights you love so well, yes. What do you think a knight is for, girl? You think it's all taking favors from ladies and looking fine in gold plate? Knights are for killing." He laid the edge of his longsword against her neck, just under her ear. Sansa could feel the sharpness of the steel. "I killed my first man at twelve. I've lost count of how many I've killed since then. High lords with old names, fat rich men dressed in velvet, knights puffed up like bladders with their honors, yes, and women and children too—they're all meat, and I'm the butcher. Let them have their lands and their gods and their gold. Let them have their sers." Sandor Clegane spat at her feet to show what he thought of that. "So long as I have this," he said, lifting the sword from her throat, "there's no man on earth I need fear."_

 _Except your brother, Sansa thought, but she had better sense than to say it aloud._

She sighed with relief when he removed the blade, wanting nothing more than to flee. Still, this will not do. He is a dog, just as he says; a half-wild, mean-tempered dog that bites any hand that tries to pet him, but will savage any man who tries to hurt his masters. And yet he saved her. And the proper lady should always remember her courtesies.

'How do you want me to thank you then?' she asked.

He looked at her, his burned face unreadable.

'You don't let me to call you brave.' she continued. 'And you don't like to be compared to knights. What should I do to express my gratitude?'

He made a strange noise, something in between a snort and a sigh.

'What little birds are supposed to do.' He said at last, his voice even harsher than usual. 'Sing me a song. Like you promised'.

So she sang to him. Like she promised, she sang him about Florian and Jonquil. He first listened standing next to her. But the song was long, and at some point he squatted silently before her, like he did long time ago, when he told her the story of his burns after the tourney king Robert Baratheon threw in honour of her father.

She was grateful he had his back to the moon and she couldn't really make up his face in the dark. Only the faint gleam of stray light reflected in his eyes.

She also realized that she was taller than she was at the time of tourney. His face wasn't on the same level with hers now. It felt weird to stand taller than Sandor Clegane.

Caught in memories of happier times, she put her hand on his shoulder, still singing. The song just got to her favorite part, when Florian discovers that Jonquil loves him despite the fact he's homely and poor, and they kiss for the first time. Sansa's voice always trembled with emotions when the song described how the fool took his beloved in his arms and spoke the words of love and devotion.

The Hound caught her completely by surprise when he suddenly yanked her closer and kissed her fully in the mouth, silencing her.

She gasped. At least she tried to, but the air stuck in her throat, never getting to the lungs. She felt his hands around her body, his ruined mouth on her lips, his smell all around her - wine and horse and leather. She stood overwhelmed, scared and uncomprehending. He wasn't supposed to do that! She was Prince Joffrey's betrothed, and he was his sworn shield.

And then, just like that, he let her go.

She backed away and extended her hand blindly, grabbing a merlon for support. Then she just stood there, unable to move, catching her breath.

'You didn't like it, did you?' he said bitterly. 'No more than you like my face.'

She hesitated. Now that he had let go off her and she could think again she realized it wasn't that bad. Not the kiss, the feeling of his big hands wrapped around her. They were gentle and strong, like her father's. They encircled her and she felt safe.

He stood up.

'Are you going to finish that damn song or what?' he demanded angrily, turning away from her towards the black water glimmering under the crescent moon.

Voice shaking, she resumed her singing. This time he listened without ever looking at her, his eyes on the distant fires across the river.

When the kissing was brought up anew in the refrain she stole a glance at the Hound, as if expecting him to reach out for her again. She felt oddly disappointed when he didn't.

The song ended. Brooding silence descended upon them, dark as a night.

'Did I thank you properly now?' she asked when she could bear it no longer.

'Yes.' Sandor Clegane answered. 'I believe you did.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy version of what could have happened a moment later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It so happened that the initial one-shot evolved into a story. This short chapter serves as a bridge between them. The following ones will be much longer!

'My lord?' she called timidly.  
He finally turned back, facing her. Sansa's throat got dry and her heart fluttered in her chest but she had to know.

'Why did you kiss me?' she asked, and then stood still, waiting anxiously for his reply.

But there came none. He towered over her, watching her with those angry eyes of his, and said nothing. She sagged a little and hung her head, having decided he would never answer.

'Because...' he rasped, his words barely distinguisheable. 'Because no Jonquil could be as pretty as you are. And because I, fool as I am, want to be your Florian.' He laughted bitterly, but her heart leapt.

She named Ser Dontos her Florian, and the old knight has promised to spirit her away from the city. But she waited and waited and this never happened. Maybe... maybe she placed her trust in the wrong person?

'Could...' she stopped, struggling for breath, trying not to think what would happen to her if this conversation ever gets to Joffrey's ears. 'Could you take me away from here? Could you bring me back to my family?'

He paused, then nodded.

'When?' she asked, not daring to hope. Mostly likely, he'll also say something about time not being right, the armies at the gates, the foes surrounding the city...

'Tomorrow. Today. Right now.' He shrugged. 'Whenever you want to go with me, little bird.'

She felt so lightheaded she had to grab his hand for support.

'Now.' she whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and the Hound leave King's Landing.

‘Try to look terrified, girl,’ rasped the Hound’s voice at her left ear.

She didn’t need to try. She was already on the verge of panic.

They were able to slip out of Maegor’s Keep undisturbed, mostly because of the Hound’s white cloak and her unadorned dress, the plainest she had. Anybody who saw them must have thought the Hound simply found himself a tumble for the night and wanted to enjoy her in some cozy place he’d have wine to mix the pleasure with.

But the guards at the city gates were another matter. They were bound to ask questions. The capital was under siege, and anyone who’d want to leave it would be subject to careful examination.

There were about a dozen of them, standing watch at the gates, and they all were astonished to see the two riders at that hour.

‘Joffrey’s dog,’ whistled one of them.

‘Caught himself a delicious piece of meat,’ replied another, giving Sansa a bawdy look.

‘And wants to flee with it before it got too hot in here,’ jested the third.

The Hound didn’t move a muscle.

‘Open the gates,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going out. Queen’s business’.

‘What kind of business?’ asked the serjeant, eyeing Sansa’s pale face.

‘The queen wants to try and make treaty with Stannis,’ the Hound informed them in a bored voice. ‘She is sending him a hostage to show the sincerity of her offer.’ His broad hand brushed roughly against Sansa’s breast. She gasped. The guards smirked.

‘Why riding double?’ asked the youngest one, clearly overcome with envy at the envoy’s position.

‘Didn’t want to give such a valuable hostage a chance to escape.’ The Hound grinned and hold her tighter, leering shamelessly over her shoulder into her cleavage. The smirks became more pronounced.

‘Do you have some kind of paper?’ demanded the serjeant, still suspicious.

The Hound snorted.

‘What do you need it for, to wipe your ass? Don’t tell me you can read. I am the paper. The queen wanted to give me a score of gold cloaks, but they looked so fucking scared that I refused. I don’t need a flock of cravens following me around. They hinder more than they help. Now, are you going to open the damn gates, or should I get back to the queen and report on you?’

That put an end to the talking. It took only a couple of heartbeats for the gates to open, only to close shut behind them. They were on the Kingsroad. They were out of the city walls. They were free. Just like that.

‘We’ll need to ride fast, girl,’ the Hound rasped while Stranger broke into a brisk canter. ‘The queen will find out about this soon enough. She knows she is not in a position to send her men after us, not with the city under attack. The boy king might still do it, though.’

She nodded, her stomach clenched in fear again.

***

Stranger galloped harder and harder, putting more distance between them and the King’s Landing. But the city still loomed over them, threatening to swallow them back at any moment.

Sansa shivered. Judging by the stories and ballads, she expected the rescue to be more magical and much, much, much less scary. This ride was madness. When faint light of the crescent moon shone on them, the surrounding hills and trees looked like they were made out of black and gray paper. When the clouds claimed the moon temporarily, the world around her went black as a pitch. She clung to the man behind her, afraid to relax for even a moment.

He held her very tight, almost crushing her. Occasionally, when Stranger took a sudden leap, the top of Sansa’s head would bump against the Hound’s chin. She didn’t mind. What she dreaded most was to drop off the horse and be lost in the darkness. Fear flooded her, making her hands weak and her head dizzy. Sometimes his arms, wrapped securely around her, were the only thing that stopped her from fainting.

Finally, the forest framed the Kingsroad, clinging to the path like a glove to a hand. The Hound loosened his grip a little, only to tense again when they heard shouts from the left. Sansa was horrified when she saw burning torches. She doubted those people were Joffrey’s pursuers. More like some outlaws hiding the woods at the outskirts of the big city. But it made no difference. If she and the Hound are caught, they will be escorted back to the capital to lose their heads on the morrow.

The Hound swore under his breath and dug his spurs into Stranger’s sides. The horse gave a wild leap, rushing into the darkness ahead.

Screams intensified, accompanied by the blood-chilling sound of the arrows flying by. Stranger whinnied madly and dashed to the side, leaving the road. The Hound grabbed Sansa even tighter, slouching his massive shoulders, shielding her with his body. She pressed herself against his broad chest as best she could and close her eyes.

She didn’t know how long they rode like that. But at some point the shouts grew fainter, and finally died down in the distance. Sansa felt the arms holding her relax a little.

‘Are you hurt?’ demanded a troubled voice at her ear.

‘No’ she replied.

‘Good,’ The Hound exhaled, and Sansa felt how something brushed against the top of her head. This time it wasn’t his chin. She realized that he must have kissed her hair.

***

It started to dawn when he finally decided it was safe to rest a bit. Sansa was so tired she didn’t momentarily understand that by ‘rest’ he meant ‘rest for the horse’. Stranger was a warhorse, strong and hardy, but he needed a bit of downtime after the almost blind journey through the forest, if they wanted to ride him again today.

Sansa didn’t have the slightest idea where they were, but she was too exhausted to care. She turned around searching for a cozy spot to sit and slumber, and was startled to hear the Hound’s furious scream, sudden and sharp.

‘Seven hells, girl!’ he swore. ‘I _asked_ you if you were hurt!’

Sansa followed his gaze. It was her turn to let out a mortified shriek when she saw a big dark stain on the back of her gown, going from the thigh-height almost down to the hem.

The Hound moved towards her as if he wanted to lift her skirts and examine the damage, but stopped himself just in time.

‘Damn it girl,’ he growled. ’There is no time for false heroism! Is it your right leg?’ He eyed the stain once again and frowned. ‘Or left? How did you even manage to catch…”

‘I’m not hurt,’ she interrupted in such a small shaking voice that any sane man would suppose otherwise.

‘Seven hells..,’ he started again.

‘I believe I have my moon blood,’ she added. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

Sandor Clegane froze.

‘Shit,’ he said.

***

‘So,’ he muttered. ‘The little bird is not so little anymore.’

They were sitting on a big log, and Sansa was rubbing her belly gently with both hands. She had to tear a stripe off her long sleeve to put the cloth between her legs. She coloured at the thought. The Hound wasn’t looking while she was attending to herself, of course, but the memory still made her cheeks burn with shame.

‘I don’t feel any bigger than yesterday,’ she said.

He stole a brief glance at the front of her gown, where the fabric clung tightly to her chest, but didn’t comment on it.

‘You look pale,’ he observed instead.

‘It’s painful,’ Sansa admitted. ‘My tummy hurts.’ She stroked her belly again.

‘Will you be able to ride?’

‘I… hope so.’ she replied tentatively. The mere thought of getting on the horseback again made her sick.

‘Is there anything you women do to deal with this… condition?’ He looked uncomfortable. It was clear he’d gladly dropped the topic if not for the urgency of the situation. They will need to set out soon.

‘My mother said heat helps. I need to put something warm on my tummy’. She looked around, as if hoping to find hot-water bottles or warm bricks prepared for her. Then her gaze returned to him, and she blushed suddenly.

‘What?’ he demanded.

She dropped her gaze, the red creeping up to her temples and down her neck.

‘Out with it, girl,’ he ordered warily.

‘Your hands,’ she confessed helplessly. ‘I just remembered how warm they were when you… um… when you listened to my song earlier.’

He stared at her. She averted her eyes, instantly regretting her words.

He let out the barking laugh that made her shiver.

‘All right, little bird.’ The Hound said. ‘It’s not unheard of the dog keeping his master warm.’

‘I am not your master,’ she protested.

He gave her no answer to that, just extended his huge hand and put it on her belly, covering almost all of it. His broad palm was, indeed, pleasantly warm. Sansa sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder. The pain subsided a little, leaving her drained and sleepy.

She never felt him lifting her back in the saddle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and her companion in Riverrun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess: my timeline is most irregular. The action in this chapter is taking place months after Sansa and the Hound fled from King's Landing. The reason for this is the countless number of fics that describe their day-to-day inn-to-inn bath-to-bath travelling routine. I prefer to jump right to the new and interesting stuff. But there will be flashbacks, I promise!

‘You’re a fool, Robb Stark,’ the Hound proclaimed dispassionately.

Grey Wind bared his teeth, more out of habit. The wolf accepted the presence of the dog much earlier than the people surrounding him.

‘Carefully, my lord,’ Greatjon Umber said menacingly. ‘You’re talking to the King of the North.’

The Hound was unimpressed.

‘I’m talking to a fool,’ he persisted. ‘A crowned fool, which makes it even worse. Bugger me, I thought Joffrey was a green boy. I repeat: Robb Stark, if you go to this wedding, you are as empty-headed as your pretty sister once was.’

‘I must say I agree with lord Clegane, Your Grace,’ Sansa managed to intervene before the conversation went into another fruitless circle. ‘Why does lord Frey ask you to come to the Twins, if it’s his daughter who is to marry? The bride and her family ought to come to Riverrun.’

It felt awful to speak up in front of the whole court, but Sansa had no choice. Robb has to listen to her. Sansa spent enough time in King’s Landing to learn the faint prickle of disquiet that accompanied the treachery in the making. The first time when she encountered this disturbing hollow sensation was when Joffrey asked her for a walk and she ended up looking at her father’s severed head. Before long, the feeling became her constant companion, along with fear. But it was the company of Sandor Clegane that sharpened this sensitivity almost to the verge of instinct. _Look around you, and take a good whiff._ The upcoming wedding of Edmure Tully had the uneasy scent of trouble all over it.

The Hound grimaced when he heard her words. She knew he wanted to object to the title, but couldn’t do it, not anymore. The King of the North granted lordship to Sandor Clegane for saving Sansa Stark and returning her safely to her family. Not without some investigation however. Robb and Mother spent a whole evening asking her tricky questions to make sure she really got to no harm under the protection of such a mean dog as Sandor Clegane was reputed to be.

He never allowed himself anything inappropriate, she told them. He never touched her unless it was absolutely necessary. He fed her and escorted her, but never demanded anything of her. Lies are not all bad, decided Sansa Stark, if they are kindly meant and serve to protect people you care about.

‘I already told you, Sansa,’ Robb was saying. ‘It’s a courtesy we owe to our loyal ally. Lord Frey granted us the right of the crossing at the hour of need. It’s only proper of him to expect a reward.’

Sansa couldn’t help glancing at Jeyne, her good-sister and Robb’s Queen. Mother told her the story of their marriage, as well as the reason for the match between her Uncle and the Frey maiden.

‘Lord and Lady Tully will dwell in Riverrun,’ Sansa insisted. ‘It’s only fitting for the wedding to be held in the Tully stronghold. What’s so bad about the guests coming here?’

'Lord Walder is very old.’ Robb replied. ‘He cannot move much.'

'It's his problems, not yours,' Sandor Clegane announced. 'Between the two of you it's you who calls yourself king, should I remind you that?'

‘You shouldn’t,’ her brother said crossly. ‘Your counsel may be valuable in battles, but not in matters of honour. You don’t care much about honour, _lord Clegane_ , or so I’ve heard. I do, however. And I know my duty.’

‘Your duty is to stay alive, boy,’ the Hound said. ‘There are many matters of honour,’ he made the last word sound like a curse, ‘but there is only one of you. If any ill befell you, there will be no more Kings of that frozen hell you call home.’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ Robb said. ‘Sansa, I appreciate your concern, but the wedding will still happen as planned. At the Twins.’

‘All right, go and die, if you care.’ The Hound shrugged. ‘But little bird is staying out of it.’

‘My lord!’ Sansa cried, scandalized. Robb smiled.

‘It’s up to her to decide,’ he answered.

A moment later, other petitioners claimed the attention of the King. Sansa and the Hound had to move closer to the wall, to give them space.

While everyone’s attention was on the newcomers, Sansa turned to her companion to whisper anxiously: 'I cannot miss the wedding! My whole family…'

Her sworn shield waved away her feverish objections as if they were swarm of annoying flies.

‘You can and you will. You take me for a fool, little bird, if you think I’ll let you anywhere near it,’ he assured her darkly.

 

***

To make northerners accept the Hound as her sworn shield was not an easy business.

First the matter was raised when she, Robb and Mother came to his cell, the next day after their arrival to Riverrun. The dungeons were cold and dark, and Sansa’s heart wrung with horror when she saw the Hound unconscious on the stone floor. But as soon as they entered the cell, her fear turned into dismay. Sandor Clegane laid spread across the straw mattress completely and utterly drunk. Sansa wrinkled her nose at the stale smell in the air.

‘Who gave him wine?’ Lady Catelyn asked the guard coldly.

The lad stiffened, but it was Robb who answered.

‘I believe I did,’ he said slowly. ‘They told me the Hound grumbled at the northern hospitality, saying he is not used to eat his supper with only melted ice to wash it down. I ordered to give him some Dornish red, but it didn’t occur to me to set the limit how much.’

Sansa couldn’t help but giggle. Lady Catelyn turned to her daughter.

'Was he often like this when you traveled?' she asked.

'No,' Sansa answered hastily. 'He drank a lot in King's Landing, it’s true, but never on our way here. He wanted to, but he said he needed a clear head…' Then it dawned on her. 'That's why he's drunk now! Mother, please, do not judge him harshly. He worked so hard to get me here. I'm sure he just wanted to rest a bit.'

'He did, that's for sure,' Robb grinned.

'Can you make him my sworn shield?' Sansa blurted. She was going to ask about it anyway, but she always dreaded the Hound would say or do something that might ruin Robb's mood. Now seemed to be a good time.

The King of the North looked at his only remaining sister incredulously.

'Him?' he pointed at the snoring figure at their feet.

'Yes,' she met his gaze boldly.

'Did he tell you to ask for it?' Robb asked, suddenly suspicious.

'No!' she replied desperately. Why cannot they understand? 'He has always protected me. He never hit me and...'

' _Hit_ you?' Lady Catelyn's eyes narrowed.

'Joffrey often ordered the knights of the Kingsguard to beat me when he was displeased.' Sansa explained. 'The Hound had never done that though. He and lord Tyrion and ser Dontos were the only ones who ever stood for me.'

'Lord Tyrion,' Lady Catelyn repeated in a strangled voice. ‘What about Queen Cersei? She allowed it?’

‘She preferred not to notice it.’

The shock washed off Robb's face, replaced with fury.

‘That bloody bastard,’ he spat. ‘I…’

‘That bloody bastard sits in King’s Landing,’ Lady Catelyn interrupted quickly. ‘Our path leads North, nor South, Robb.’

Sansa remembered the family tale of Brandon Stark who went to the capital to demand justice for what was done to his sister. Mother clearly didn’t fancy Robb to repeat his uncle’s fate.

'So, do you agree?' Sansa asked her brother. ‘To make Sandor my sworn shield?’

'Let him wake up first,' he muttered.

***

It didn’t come to her easily to call the Hound by his name, either.

‘How should I call you then?’ she asked him once in the beginning of their journey, when they camped for the night. ‘You’re not a lord, not a ser, and I am not calling you a dog.’

‘Why not Florian?’ The Hound suggested mockingly. He was in one of his nasty moods.

Sansa gave it a thought, ignoring his derisive tone.

‘You are not Florian,’ she decided.

The man’s sneer turned to laughter, dark and hateful.

‘You are better,’ Sansa concluded.

The laughter stopped suddenly, as if cut by a dagger. She hastened to explain, before he could say anything mean and spoil the moment.

‘You are strong and brave,’ she said. ‘You saved me during the riot. Ser Preston Greenfield and ser Aron Santagar were brave too, yet they were killed, while you survived and rescued me. You protected me from Joffrey...’ He even lied for her once, on the king’s thirteen nameday, but Sansa preferred not to point this out.

‘And what a protection it was,’ The Hound’s voice was hollow. She turned to look at him, but saw only the burn side of his face. ‘They were beating you bloody, and I just stood there in my white cloak and watched.’

‘The whole court just stood there and watched,’ Sansa reminded him gently. ‘At least, you tried to intervene. You gave me your cloak. And now you’re taking me to my family.’ A sudden thought made her smile. ‘It would come as no surprise to me if the singers make a song about you when we finally get to Riverrun.’ She sighed dreamily. ‘The song about the fearsome warrior who rescued an innocent maiden from the clutches of evil king. The song of Sandor the… the..,’ she waited for the proper word to come to her.

‘The Butcher?” he supplied, cutting her mid-thought.

The remark stung.

‘You are awful,’ she whispered reproachfully.

‘I’m honest.’ He rasped. ‘Don’t try to paint me better than I am. And it’s the world that is awful, not me. The world is ruled by fear, fear and blood.’

‘Is it fear and blood you are going to ask for when we get to my brother?’ she retorted. ‘Will this be your reward?’

‘First we need to get there,’ he growled. ‘Now, off to bed, little bird. I’m sick of you peeping at me.’

When her moon blood ended and she regained the capability of sitting on horseback without him supporting her, the Hound bought her a mare to ride on her own. She was using the term ‘bought’ loosely here, as he simply went to some village they passed after sunset, stole into a stable, took a horse and left a couple of gold dragons on the straw-covered floor. He insisted he paid much more than the damn animal was worth, but Sansa still felt uneasy about it.

This way they didn’t have to exhaust Stranger, but soon Sansa found she rather missed the previous arrangement. Without having to share a saddle the Hound almost never touched her. He always had his bedroll opposite of hers, and looked adamant about keeping this distance until they reach Riverrun.

He lost his composure once, when they got caught in a freezing rain and had to hide in some half-ruined barn, dragging the horses inside with them. Sansa’s teeth chattered from the cold, and she was shaking so badly that it came as a relief when the Hound snatched her hand and pulled her to sit on his lap. He was also wet from the rain, and his fingers were cold, but when his arms encircled her, she smiled at the sense of protection she missed so much.

Then she felt this again, his mouth on the top of her head, kissing her hair. Despite her dump clothes, Sansa suddenly felt very warm. Following some instinct, she cuddled closer to him. He grabbed her tighter, and the next thing she knew he was planting light kisses everywhere: her ear, her brow, her throat, the back of her neck. She was so astonished by the delicacy of his touch that it almost negated the fear. In her head she knew she was alone in the middle of nowhere with a strong man holding her in his arms and probably entertaining some unseemly thoughts about her, and with only her birthright to protect her. But his caresses were so gentle she couldn’t make herself believe he bore her any ill will.

Next to them, Stranger whinnied. The Hound stilled and stiffened. Sansa opened her eyes, listening intently to the pounding of rain outside. But neither she, nor her companion heard anything unsettling.

The intervention appeared to have sobered the Hound however. The man seemed to come to his senses. He let out a long, ragged sigh and the slowly broke the embrace, helping her to her feet. She had to hug herself against the cold. Having let go off her, the Hound slouched and lapsed into a grim silence.

‘Sandor,’ she whispered. He winced at the sound of his name. ‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘You?’ he looked like dog that got kicked in the guts. ‘No, little bird. You did nothing wrong.’

After that, he rapidly grew distant again, as well as snarly. It looked like nothing she did could close the gap between them. Sometimes she wished he would grab her chin, like he did in King’s Landing, and demand her to look at him. She would look. She can bear the sight of his burns now. Her heart still missed a beat when she saw them, but at least she didn't avert her eyes anymore. Sansa thought he'd be glad when he notices it. But he seemed to never notice.

Still, it amazed her how fast she got used to his presence. As if he was Harwyn or Vayon Poole, only more rough-tongued and bad-tempered. All right, much more rough-tongued and bad-tempered. And sometimes he acted strangely. Quite regularly, in fact. Every evening, when they made camp, he busied himself with work, like chopping wood for the night or sharpening his sword. Very often he did it to a degree that Sansa found quite unnecessary. They always ended up with much more firewood than they could use, for instance.

Once she woke up to find the Hound staring at her. When she asked him what's wrong, he muttered something indistinguishable and went to tend to the horses. Also unnecessarily.

When they were mere days away from Riverrun, she decided to thank him again, for taking such a good care of her. She asked what song he would like to listen to, and was taken aback when he suddenly got all angry and snapped at her for the rest of the day. Sansa was hurt, but she attributed the outburst to the tiredness of the long journey, and silently decided to do everything in her power to make Robb reward the Hound – no, Sandor - handsomely.  
***  
Sansa got it her way in the end. Robb made her rescuer a lord and granted Clegane the permission to pledge his sword to her. To her faint surprise and immense delight, the Hound didn’t raise any objections to this course of matters. Distant as he was, he showed no intention of leaving her, and for this she was grateful.

He became her sworn shield and now followed her everywhere. He guarded the door to the chamber as she and Jeyne were sewing, he stood behind Sansa in the dining hall as she ate, and he would sleep on the floor next to her bed, if Lady Catelyn allowed it. Her brother’s men scoffed at him, calling him a beaten Lannister dog, but the Hound paid no mind. Soon they stopped doing that, as he proved to be very valuable. He served Lannisters since he was twelve. He knew how they think, how they act, what they fear. Things that are good to know about your enemy.

Some northerners would jape he speaks so harshly of his old masters to make his new liege smile. They soon stopped saying that as well. When the Hound spoke his mind about Robb’s deeds, he never bothered himself with courtesy either.

Sansa sighed. Robb will listen to her. Today’s plea was unsuccessful, but she will make her brother understand. He shouldn’t go to the Twins. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But in the end, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. Now I need Sansa to grow up a little, to quiet my own sense of disbelief at the thought of her banging an adult man.   
> Anyhow, the next chapter is far away. I need to think it through, carefully and thoroughly. Because it will feature Littlefinger. Oh, my.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa seeks refuge and counsel in the Vale, but what will she really find?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was very naive of me to believe I could be done with Littlefinger in one single chapter. His own wonderfully twisted personality aside, there is always too much politics around him for my delicate constitution. I couldn't take it. I had to write in small snippets. Besides, it's tricky to go romantic while being in a mindset of a political mastermind.

‘Your Grace,’ Bronze Yohn Royce bowed to her.

The title rang hollow in her ears. The days when she was dreaming about people calling her a queen were long gone. Along with her parents and siblings. Along with her home.

‘One word from you,’ Bronze Yohn said, ‘and the power of the Vale will descend on that traitors’ nest, to free the path to Winterfell for you and the one you choose.’

'I appreciate your fervour, Lord Royce,' she said, 'and the knights of Vale are famous for their valor. But if even if you manage to conquer the Twins you'll still be caught between Lannisters and Greyjoys.'

'You will be safe here, my lady.' He assured her. 'Leave the matters of warfare to those who are meant to handle them. Men are made for war, and maidens for motherhood.'

 _He wants me to wed his son, ser Andar. Or his nephew ser Albar. Or someone of Redfots of Waynwoods, it doesn't matter to them. They only want my claim._ When she was a girl, she used to dream of the magical time when she'd be old enough to marry. Now, the word 'wedding' made her think of Joffrey and her stomach squirm at the thought. And yet, if she does not marry one of them, they will not help her win Winterfell back.

'I have discussed the matter with a man of war,' she turned her head ever so slightly to the left, where Sandor stood behind her chair, silent and brooding. Indeed, all her notions on the implications of the Red Wedding came from him or her Uncle Brynden. But Uncle was leages away, in Riverrun, and the knights of the Vale were as happy to listen to the Lannister's dog as her brother's men once were. And the Hound himself was much less talkative here. Most times he just stood guard next to her, and spoke only when she asked him a question.

'I believe you're all forgetting something, my lords,' said the cheerful voice of Petyr Baelish, the newly-appointed Lord Protector of the Vale.

Behind her, the Hound snorted. But he was the only one who found Littlefinger’s interference amusing. Bronze Yohn frowned. Lord Nester Royce clenched his teeth. The high hall of the Gates of the Moon went menacingly silent.

'To offer any support to the Queen of the North,’ Littlefinger continued, unabashed, ‘you first need to get consent from Lord Arryn.'

'We already agreed about this, Lord Baelish,’ said Lord Nestor stiffly. ‘We'll ride to the Eyrie, and talk to Lady Lysa.'

‘For sure you will,’ the small man agreed. ‘But to what end? If my memory doesn’t fail me, last time you tried something like this was when you wanted to go to Robb Stark’s war. Somehow I have a feeling that attempt was unsuccessful.'

‘Do you have other suggestions?’ asked Lady Waynwood acidly.

‘If you ask me, it would be more beneficial for Lady Sansa to go there alone.’ Lord Baelish looked at the Queen for the first time since he has spoken. His face was a picture of courteous civility, but his green-grey eyes didn’t smile like his mouth did. ‘As a sad young maiden, Lady Lysa's kin and blood, not as a Queen of the North who already took liberty to make agreements with Arryn's bannermen.'

'Does it mean that mean we have _your consent_ , Lord Protector?' Bronze Yohn sneered.

'In my opinion, an open war would be a folly,' Lord Baelish shrugged. 'The Vale would fare better without a war or any other kind of complications that would result in exhausting our food supplies. But I can understand your selfless desire to help a maid so fair and innocent, and a Queen of the North besides.‘

Lord Nestor grunted, but said nothing. Bronze Yohn turned back to Sansa, ignoring the little man pointedly.

‘What do you say, my lady?’

‘I...’ she stopped. Do they want an answer from her already? Do they expect her to give her hand that easily? ‘I need to think on it,’ she said finally. ‘All these prospects and plans are a bit too overwhelming for me. Would you allow me some time to dwell on them, my lords?’

‘By all means, Your Grace,’ Bronze Yohn assured her gallantly. ‘But pray, do not exhaust yourself tonight. The feast we are having in your honour would loose half its splendor if you are unable to attend.’

***

Lord Nestor escorted her to her seat on the dais. She was to take the place of high honor, between himself and his merry daughter, Myranda. Sansa smiled and gave polite answers to the greetings, remarking on the grandeur of the feast and the sweetness of music, but her head was still filled with uneasy thoughts about the future.

They were right. She didn’t understand the war. They called her Queen of the North, but now she realized she didn’t understand how to be a monarch, either. Kings and queens are supposed to have _power_. She had none. All she had was an empty title and a claim to ruined lands, full of enemies and hungry smallfolks.

Once, she heard her father saying something about high lords playing game of thrones; now, she started to understand what he meant. It was nothing like a game. It was frighteningly real. If she wants Winterfell back, she’d have to play and pay. And her wager would be her maidenhead.

She was taken out of her morbid thoughts by a lively voice at her right.

‘You are very silent, my lady,’ said Myranda Royce. ‘Lost in dreams, I presume?’

‘Pray excuse me,’ said Sansa hastily. ‘I have a lot to think about.’ Her mind raced in the search for a neutral topic to discuss. Myranda spared her the trouble.

‘Your sworn shieldis also quite a silent man,’ she said in a conspiratorial whisper, and glanced back, where the Hound stood. ‘And fierce, by the look of him. Those scars are hideous, of course, but my, the sheer _size_ of him. I’ve never seen such a huge man in my life. Cannot help wondering if all of him is that big.’

‘His brother is even bigger,’ Sansa replied. ‘They call him Mountain that Rides.’ The thought of ser Gregor Clegane made her ill at ease. She suddenly recalled it was him who killed Jon Arryn’s squire at the tourney of the Hand, and regretted mentioning him at all.

Myranda stared at her in disbelief, and then broke into a throaty giggle. Sansa smiled too, relieved by her reaction. But before Lady Royce could ask more questions, a cheerful voice intervened.

‘May I have the honour, Your Grace?’

Lord Baelish stood next to her, his hand extended. He was asking her for a dance, Sansa realized. It’s been a long while since she danced. There was no time for dancing in Riverrun, and she never danced in King’s Landing. Last time must have been in Winterfell.

Sansa smiled and accepted Lord Petyr’s hand.

He proved to be an excellent dancer, deft and dexterous. They were whirling around the hall, and for a moment Sansa thought she could close her eyes and imagine it’s Robb dancing with her.

‘I’m sorry for your losses,’ Lord Baelish said softly to her ear. His breath smell of mint.

His words brought back the sense of sorrow and guilt. Robb was dead, along with Mother. Murdered at the wedding feast, because she couldn’t find the right words to persuade them not to go.

‘It’s kind of you to say so, my lord,’ she managed.

‘Petyr, please,’ he offered.

‘Petyr,’ she repeated uncertainly.

‘There was time Cat was all I wanted in the world,’ Lord Baelish murmured thoughtfully. Sansa was taken aback for the moment, and then remembered his words on the tourney. Your mother was my queen of love and beauty once. He was grieving, too.

‘But I didn’t invite you to dance to make you sad,’ he smiled and brushed back a loose strand of her hair. ‘Let’s talk about something pleasant and joyful. What do you think about all these peacocks aspiring for your hand?’

The topic was neither exactly relaxing nor joyful for Sansa, but, thankfully, Lord Baelish didn’t wait for an answer.

‘I bet there is no man in this room who wouldn't cherish a desire to marry you. Except me, of course.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m devoted to my lady wife.’ He swirled her on the spot in one fluent movement.

‘Lady Lysa,’ she remembered, slightly confused. Hasn’t he just said he loved her mother? But then again, it was long ago, and Lady Catelyn was dead now.

‘Come with me to the Eyrie,’ Littlefinger offered. ‘I’m going up tomorrow afternoon. If gods are good, we’ll be there before sunset.’

‘Tomorrow!’ she exclaimed. They have only arrived to the Gates of the Moon the day before. She was hoping for a nice long stay.

‘The longer you make Lysa wait, the more annoyed she’d be when you arrive,’ he pointed out.

There was a pause, when they had to run through a corridor composed by other couples, diving under the arch of united hands. By the time they were done, Sansa reached her decision. There was, indeed, no reason to postpone the visit in the Eyrie. There will be quieter there, and maybe Aunt Lysa can advise her about the complicated decision she had on her hands.

‘I’ll go with you,’ she said.

Petyr smiled and nodded approvingly.

‘So wise a maid. I will be waiting for you in the yard come noon then. Though I would recommend to leave your sworn shield behind. I have my own escort.’

‘No,’ Sansa said firmly. Lord Baelish may be courteous and obliging, but the Hound was loyal. ‘Sandor is going with me.’

Littlefinger didn’t press the point.

‘As you wish,’ he said lightly.

***  
‘How did you like it, little bird?” the Hound growled when she returned to her seat. Myranda’s chair was empty - the older girl was still dancing. ‘Did he feed you enough honey to believe the life was all sugar again?’

She gave him a startled look.

‘Lord Petyr has been most helpful,’ she answered warily.

The Hound snorted.

‘You don’t have to be mean,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Just tell me what vexes you so.’

‘You’re still as air-headed as you were in King’s Landing, aren’t you?’ he rasped derisively. ‘Dancing with a man who betrayed your precious father and boasted about taking a maidenhead of your mother, and then asking what vexes me?’

‘W-what are you saying?’ Sansa had to squeeze the armrest of her chair for support.

‘When your father was arrested, Littlefinger hold a dagger at his throat.’ The Hound sneered at the look of horror at her eyes. ‘You didn’t expect it, did you? Gods, girl, I thought the life has beaten some sense into that pretty head of yours.’

‘I agreed to go with him to Eyrie tomorrow,’ she whispered, stricken.

‘Piss on that. That brat is never true to his word. Why should you be?’

‘But why did he betray my father?’ She remembered now, she did see quite a lot of Lord Baelish around her father’s quarters at the times when Lord Eddard Stark sat on the Iron Throne. ’He said he loved my mother...’

‘High lords play game of thrones,’ Sandor said with disgust. ‘And he is the greediest player of all. His every word is a lie. An honest dog risks losing its nose around the likes of his. He reeks of deception so much you can barely breathe.’

Sansa bit her lip. She knew Sandor was only defending her interests, but his last words made her doubt. She didn’t feel any menace in Lord Petyr’s manners. He was so calm and polite. And the Hound is simply tired after the long journey and a bit snappy after listening to all those discussions about how she should marry to win Winterfell back. She tried to seek his own advice on that matter, but only got a tart look and a acid remark: ‘Are you so eager to return to a cage, little bird?’

‘I’ll talk to Lord Baelish,’ she announced. ‘I’ll ask him about Father.’

***  
‘Yes,’ said the man who, just a short while ago, asked her to call him Petyr. ‘I did hold the dagger at your father’s throat.’

Sansa found herself in a loss of words.

‘But before you brand me as a traitor,’ Lord Baelish continued softly, ‘pray remind me. Are you the same Sansa Stark who came running to Queen Cersei to tell about all her father’s plans?’

She felt like all the air went out of her lungs. Last time she experienced a pain like this was when ser Boros Blount slammed a fist into her belly.

‘I..,’ she started. ‘I didn’t know they would kill him. I believed the Queen to be good..,’ her words sounded weak in her own ears.

‘You were just a child,’ Littlefinger agreed. ‘But Lord Eddard was not a twelve-year-old girl. I tried to counsel him since the moment he came to King’s Landing.’ The short man sighed. ‘He never listened. He never adapted. That’s Starks for you. Unyielding, but brittle. I warned him he was about to break. He ignored that as well. He started this folly about bastards. I didn’t want to die just yet, so I didn’t follow him into that.’

‘But Joffrey _was_ a bastard,’ Sansa found herself saying.

‘He certainly was. So what?’ He chucked slightly at the sight of her incredulous face. ‘It stopped being important the moment King Robert drew his last breathe. The realm needed a king, and Joffrey looked better than Stannis... at the moment. And none of it certainly matters now.’

***

By the end of the ascent, Sansa was tired and dizzy. Ser Lothor Brune helped her out of the basket, but she had to lean on Sandor’s arm to be able to walk straight.

Then she heard a high-pitch shriek ‘Petyr!’ and was startled to see a big, puffy woman running across the small yard towards them. Her clothes were silk and velvet, richly embroidered, her hairnet decorated with moonstones and gems; but her body was heavy, and her blue eyes watery.

The woman threw herself into Littlefinger’s arms. Lord Baelish laughed softly when he took his wife’s face into his hands and kissed her thoroughly in the mouth.

‘I missed you so much,’ the woman said. ‘Why did you have to be away for so long?’

‘I have a lot to deal with, as you very well know, my little greedy wife,’ he said teasingly. ‘Here, come. I brought a guest with me.’

Lady Lysa turned around reluctantly, noticing the rest of the group for the first time.

Sansa smiled uncertainly.

‘Aunt Lysa,’ she said.

The woman said nothing. Her eyes traveled from Sansa to her sworn shield. Her face contorted with rage.

‘Him!’ she screamed. ‘How dare you to bring a _Lannister_ man here?’

‘Sandor is my sworn shield,’ Sansa replied politely, thought the coldness of Lady Lysa’s welcome was an unpleasant surprise to her. What did she do wrong? Why does her aunt treat her like an enemy?

Then she saw the face Lord Baelish and suddenly it came back to her. _Leave your sworn shield behind._ Littlefinger tried to warn her.

‘You are Catelyn’s daughter, so you’re always welcome at the Eyrie,’ Lady Lysa said stiffly. ‘But this creature is another matter. We will proceed into High Hall immediately. My son with deal with him.’

***

Sansa didn’t like the look her Aunt was giving her, just a shade away from being openly hostile. She didn’t understand this. Last time Sansa have seen her mother’s sister was years ago, but she imagined her to be like Uncle Brynden, harsh, but kind, shrewd, but honorable. Now she saw she was mistaken. Aunt Lysa was nothing like Uncle Brynden.

The only time when Lady Lysa’s face softened was when she was looking at her husband. Her eyes seemed to glow, and the smile bloomed on her lips. _She is indeed in love with him._

Lord Robert Arryn turned out to be a small, thin, pale boy with large brown eyes and a petulant face which reminded her unpleasantly of Joffrey. He was sitting on the tall chair on a stack of blue cushions, but somehow it made him seem even smaller than he was.

'He is _ugly_!' screamed the little lord the moment he set eyes on Sandor Clegane. ‘Mother, I want him to fly!'

Sansa followed his gaze towards the white weirwood door in the marble wall. She have heard enough about the Moon Door to understand what the boy meant.

‘No!' she gasped.

'My son has spoken,' Lady Lysa announced haughtily. 'This man is a Lannister dog. He is guilty of countless crimes.'

Behind Sansa, the Hound snorted.

'My brother has pardoned him!' Sansa objected feverishly, before her sworn shield could say something that would scare Lord Robert and infuriate her aunt even more. 'He pledged his sword to my family, and his loyalty...'

'You may be Queen of the North,' Lady Lysa interrupted her. 'But it’s my son who rules the Vale.'

Sansa grabbed the only chance the destiny was offering her.

‘Lord Robert,' she pleaded to the boy. The little lord looked at her blankly. 'When I was almost your age, my lord,’ she started, ‘my father gave me a present. A little wolf I named Lady. She was sweet and trusting and gentle, with her soft fur and the eyes like molten gold. She never did anything wrong, but Lannister Queen still ordered to kill her. Lannisters killed my father as well, they took his head off.’

The little lord didn’t make any attempt to interrupt her, which Sansa took as a good sign.

‘Now this man,' she gestured towards the Hound, never daring to take her eyes off the small figure on the tall chair, 'they call him a dog, but he was the only one who protected me since I lost my father. Please, don't take him from me.'

The boy's expression was still haughty, but there was a gleam of new interest in his dark eyes.

'Why are there burns on his face?' he wanted to know.

Sansa felt the Hound stiffen behind her. She took her time to let out a deep sigh. The Lord of the Vale awaited her answer. She had to tell.

'Most of people believe he got the scars in a battle,' She said, dropping her voice, as if to add some mystery to the story, but really because she barely could speak from the coldness in her chest. 'A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. I believe it was..,' she paused, wondering if Sandor will ever forgive her for that. '... _dragonbreath_.'

Lord Robert's mouth had hung open.

Lady Lysa rose to her feet.

'Don't feed my son fairytales, girl!' she said sharply. 'There are no more dragons left in the world!'

'He can stay.' Lord Robert proclaimed ubruptly. 'But you should stay too,’ he said to Sansa, ‘and tell me more stories. You can read to me. Mother reads to me every night.'

'I will gladly read for you, my lord,' Sansa felt lightheaded with relief.

Lady Lysa did not care to hear the any more of that.

'Come, Sweetrobin,' she said. 'It's past time you’ve eaten.'

They left through the small doors behind the dais. Lord Baelish lingered just long enough to her an approving smile:

'It was deftly done, my lady. Very deftly done.'

'It's kind of you to say, my lord,' she answered.

'Our little Sweetrobin can be hard to talk to,' Littlefinger chuckled. 'But you will have little problems with him I daresay.'

***

The Lady of the Eyrie summoned her on the morrow. Her aunt was still abed, though Lord Petyr was not in the room.

Lady Lysa studied her intently, while nibbling at the corner of the honeycomb. Sansa was silent, waiting for her aunt to speak.

‘So, you came here to ask for my forces,’ Lady Lysa said finally, leaking the honey from her fingers. ‘To make the Vale go to war. To break the peace it took me so much to build.’

Sansa shook her head.

‘They call me Queen of the North, but I never wanted the title. They urge me to marry, but I don’t feel I could be a wife just yet. I don’t know what to do, Aunt Lysa. I came to seek counsel.’

That seemed to please the older woman.

‘We all sometimes find ourselves in the situations we were never meant for,’ Lady Lysa said. ’I never wanted to marry Jon Arryn, but I had to anyway.’ Her voice turned tearful. ‘You don’t have to be afraid of me, Sansa. I would never turn away Catelyn’s daughter. You may kiss my cheek.’

Sansa obliged, kneeling beside the bed. Her aunt was drenched in parfume, but beneath it there was a sourly milk smell. Her cheek tasted of paint and powder. When Sansa tried to step back, her aunt grabbed her by the wrist.

'Do you sleep with him?' she demanded sharply. 'Did you bed the Hound to ensure his loyalty?

'No!' Sansa cried, aghast and startled by the question.

'Don’t try to hide anything from me.' Lady Lysa said. 'I’ll know anyway. I know everything what happens in the Eyrie. And I knew Joffrey. He used to call my Robert cruel names. His dog is no better. You had to do something to entice him.'

 _I sang to him._

Sansa met her aunt’s gaze.

'I’m a maiden,' she said evenly. 'He’s my sworn shield. I don’t believe I have done anything to give you a reason to insult me so.'

‘You are a woman flowered, are you not?’ asked Lady Lysa, holding her wrist tighter.

‘Yes.’

‘And you want me to believe that Lannister’s dog followed you out of sheer benevolence? As a gesture of good will?’

‘My brother made him a lord.’ Sansa said wearily.

‘Lordship,’ said Lady Lysa, loosening the grip on her wrist. ‘Of course. Even a dog is dreaming about raising high. But I’d still say it’s not fitting for a young maid to have such a vile man as her sole protector.’

‘He is the only man of my own I have.’

‘This can be altered,’ her aunt said. ‘How would you like to marry your cousin, Lord Robert?”

Sansa kept her face as polite as she could muster. Here it comes. How naive had she been thinking that in the Eyrie she would be away from the marital decisions. Aunt Lysa wanted her claim, as well. _Nobody would ever wed me for love._

‘His lordship is still a child,’ she pointed out.

Lady Lysa threw her hand away.

‘Yes, and not robust. But he is a good boy, and he will be a great man. The seed is strong, my husband said on his deathbed. You may be the Queen of the North, but with Winterfell fallen, you are not more than a beggar now. Marry Robert, then I'll give you my consent to recapture your stronghold, after the winter passes. If not, go beg.'

‘I... I am very flattered by your offer, my lady,’ she said. ‘Only... can I have some time to think to wrap my mind around it? This is all so overwhelming. I am not ready.’

‘Do you think I was ready?’ Tears swelled suddenly on Lady Lysa’s eyes. ‘They gave me to an old man, with half his teeth gone and his breath smelling like bad cheese. Petyr’s breath is always fresh. My father used to say he was too lowborn, but I knew how high he would rise... I hope we will make a child with him, a brother to Robert or a sweet little sister. You are too young to have children, but some day you’ll understand. But first, you’ll need to be a wife. So get ready, if you must. You have my leave to go.’

***  
Sansa was walking back to her chambers, weak and tired and devastated. The mood swings of her aunt made her, if possible, even more worried. It was a folly to come here. There is nobody in the world who would do something for her without expecting something in return.

Except Sandor.

 _Do you sleep with him_? Her aunt’s voice rang in her ears. _Did you bed the Hound?_

Her first reactions to these words was indignation. How could her aunt ever think something like that? But now she found herself wondering at the prospect. Back in Riverrun she heard people whispering, wondering why he didn’t claim her when he had a chance. What would it be like if he... he...

Sansa remembered the kiss on the towertop of the Red Keep, and the series of light kisses in the unknown barn somewhere on the way to riverlands. It happened less then a dozen of moon's turns, but she felt as if it's been an eternity. She was frightened then; but what about now? If he kissed her right this instance, would she respond differently?

The memory of his strong arms embracing her made her feel strange. For some reason she found herself remembering Myranda Royce's words. 'Is all of him that big?' She suddenly realized what the older girl was asking about, and colored.

She looked at Sandor, seized by some kind of bold curiosity. He was striding, as ever, a step behind her. He noticed her glance.

‘What?”

Sansa bit her lip. Lady Lysa was right on one account, at least. There are too many eyes here.

'My aunt suggested marrying me to her son,' she said to the Hound. 'But I don't understand. If I get betrothed to Lord Robert, how do I return to Winterfell? He is but a boy, he cannot lead an army.'

'There is nothing to understand,' her sworn shield said darkly. His tone was always sour when they were discussing her marriage prospects. 'Nobody gives a damn about your return to Winterfell. They want your claim, your pretty face and your body. They want to take all you have and then set you up to breeding.'

The Hound said more than this, but she didn’t really listen. When they reached her chamber, she casually gestured him in. He was still talking so he followed her readily enough.

‘That's the way of it. Little birds are meant for cages, even as pretty as…’

He stopped mid-word when he saw her checking the door. She didn’t want to lock it, but didn’t fancy it to open by sheer chance either.

‘What is this?’ he asked in rasping whisper.

‘I need you to do something for me,’ she stepped closer.

He nodded, ready to follow her command. She moved closer still.

‘Kiss me.’

He reeled back from her, trying to put as much free space as possible between them, but no avail. She managed to catch him by the hand.

‘Please!’ she whispered urgently. ‘We don’t have much time!’ Even if anybody was eavesdropping on them, they still had a couple of moments before the listeners notice a pause in a conversation.

‘What game are you…’ he started, but she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his.

He froze, and for a moment she thought he was not going to respond. Then he grabbed her, crushing her almost painfully against him. One of his hands moved down her back, another one went to the nape of her neck and hair, fingers entangling into the thick auburn tresses. The scarred part of his mouth felt scratchy, and the other rapacious. The tension she didn't know existed was now melting away, leaving her trembling and weak-kneed. All those feelings she denied herself for the past year seemed to flood over her, making blood to boil in her veins.

She thought she was going to faint, it was so good. She moaned into his lips; he kissed her harder. Her head swim. She fell into the realm of sensations and got completely and entirely lost.

Then she felt a callused fingertip to brush against her nipple. The sensation was so intense it made her gasp uncontrollably. The next moment the warmth of his body against hers disappeared, and she opened her eyes.

She found herself standing with her back to the wall, the laces of her bodice undone and one of her breasts bare. Sandor stood a couple of steps away, not looking at her. His was breathing hard, as if he just came out of the melee field.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ he hissed.

 _Yes_ , she wanted to say. _I must be as mad as Lady Lysa._

‘No,’ she answered loudly. ‘I don’t think they care about my return to Winterfell. But I do. I want to go home, and I will only marry a man who proves he can get me there.’

The Hound finally looked at her. There was fury in his grey eyes, but also something else. By this time she spent enough time around men aspiring to marry her to recognize the look.

He wanted her.

She smiled, so brightly and broadly her cheeks nearly burst. She didn’t know why this realization made her so happy, but it did.

Until he turned his back to her and left the room.

When she came to look for him in his little chamber next morning, he was drunk.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Hound is out, the hell breaks loose...

She broke her fast in silence, feeling an unusual emptiness at the space behind her.

It was not news to her that Sandor Clegane favoured wine. In King’s Landing, she’d seen him on his cups more often than not. In Riverrun, he seemed to drink less (except for that time in the dungeon which was excusable) but still was not to turn away a flagon if it was offered to him. But she didn’t understand why he had to drink himself unconscious now. She suspected it might have something to do with the kiss they shared yesterday; but by the looks other men had been giving her she thought he would be pleased by her interest, not enraged.

She meant it to be just one kiss. She never expected such a reaction from him. Truth be told, she never expected such a reaction from herself. The mere memory of it made her cheeks burn. The most puzzling part of it was that she couldn’t make herself regret it.

But still, Sandor should not have left her. He is her sworn shield, he should stay next to her, not lay passed out on the wooden bed too small for him two storeys above.

The sound of soft footsteps took her out of her reverie. Lord Baelish joined her at the table, cheerful and polite as ever.

‘I’m told your sworn shield had himself a go last night?’ he said lightly.

Sansa blushed.

‘The road from Riverrun to the Gates of the Moon was long and tiresome. And the ascent to the Eyrie took its toll, too.’

‘The man needs a rest once in a while,’ Littlefinger agreed amiably. ‘They say he’s guarding you day and night.’

She smiled, relieved by his nonchalance.

‘How did it come to this, I wonder?’ he continued, and she tensed again. ‘He was Joffrey’s faithful dog, a member of the Kingsguard... what made the dog bite the hand that was feeding him? You must have enchanted him, my lady.’

‘My brother...’ she started.

‘Gave him lordship, I know,’ he waved his hand dismissively. ‘From what I know of the Hound, he doesn’t care about titles and lands. He lives to fight, drink and hate. But maybe the smile of fair maiden changed his heart at long last.’ The bleak daylight danced in his green-grey eyes as Petyr looked pointedly at her.

Sansa couldn’t help but blush again.

‘He..,’ she made herself say. ‘He never...’

‘Oh, you don’t have to be ashamed, my lady,’ he said, serious for once. ‘I know what it means, when a man falls in love with a woman far too highborn for him. I dared to dream of your mother, but she was a daughter of Riverrun. _Family, Duty, Honor_ , my lady. Family, Duty, Honor meant I could never have her hand.’

‘But you married aunt Lysa,’ she frowned.

‘Lord Paramount of the Trident married Lady Arryn,’ he corrected. ‘But I was born Petyr Baelish, a heir to a minor house with no prospects with the daughter of Hoster Tully. Alas, it never stopped me from being enamored by her beauty.’

‘I don’t think Sandor is enamored by me,’ she blurted. The Hound had shown a certain tenderness towards her, and he often used the word ‘pretty’ when speaking about her looks, but she couldn’t even imagine him being enamored, let alone being in love. He was a warrior, big, strong, harsh and sullen. He laughed at love songs and called her stupid for believing in them.

‘What about you, my lady?’ Petyr asked with a mischievous smile. ‘What do you see in the Hound what makes you want to keep him close?’

The word ‘close’ made her remember Sandor’s rough hands and insistent mouth. The red started creeping on her cheeks again, but then stopped, as the memories got pushed aside by other thoughts. _I feel safe with him. Always did. And I trust him. He may be rough and bitter and rude, but his words are sincere._

‘He’s honest,’ she said simply.

Lord Baelish smiled.

‘A very rare trait indeed. Almost impossible to come by.’

He turned away from her to pick a pomegranate from the bowl of fruits.

‘Speaking of marriages.’ He examined the fruit carefully and started working on his with his dagger. ‘My lady wife told me you are to be betrothed to our little Robert.'

'She spoke to me about it,' Sansa admitted. 'But I haven't given an answer yet.'

'And why is it so, I wonder?' Littlefinger chuckled. He was loosening pomegranate seeds one after another with the point of his dagger and putting them on the plate before Sansa. 'I presume, after Joffrey you're not all too eager to get married.'

She nodded, grateful for not having to explain her worries out loud.

'And you want to return home. Winterfell, the stronghold of the North.'

Sansa nodded again, taken by the childish hope that he'll come up with some clever plan to get her where her heart belonged.

'But this would be most unwise,' Lord Baelish said, and she sighed, disappointed.

'Winterfell was the home of your childhood.' he continued, 'But you are a woman now. Soon, you will need to build your own home. And if you are inclined to pay any heed to my humble counsel, little Robert would be a perfect match for that. The boy will not come of age for many years. You will have time to think it through.'

She hasn’t thought about this this way. In her mind, the marriage was about running castles and making babies, not about keeping away unwanted suitors.

‘I am the Queen of the North,’ she said. ‘And there should always be a Stark in Winterfell.’

‘Even from this prospective, my point still stands. Get betrothed to Robert and wait in the Vale until the winter ends. Right now the North is teeming with foes. Ironborn, wildlings, outlaws, what have you. Ah, and I should not forget adding Stannis to the bunch. If he hears about the Queen of the North coming near, first thing he’ll do would be to capture you and wed to some knight of his own. But the good long winter like the one maesters promise us should leave your lands peaceful and quiet.’

 _And empty_ , she thought.

'I... I guess it makes sense,' she said aloud. ‘I will give it a thought, my lord.’

Petyr smiled at her, and then looked at the plate in front of him, full of blood red pomegranate seeds. 'Oh my. What am I going to do with the lot of those? I cannot stomach too much of pomegranate. Would you save me, my lady?' His smile was helpless, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

She eyed the treat warily. Pomegranate seeds were so messy.

'Eat them one by one, Sansa,' Littlefinger recommended, setting an example. 'This is the way to resolve problems. Separate them and then deal with them one by one.'

He picked one seed up with a spoon and offered it to her.

***

Sandor awoke with a jolt.

He rose from the bed, checked the flagon at the bed table, found it empty and grunted.

This night brought him the most vivid, mind-boggling, sweet dream he’d ever had. The kind of dream that makes a man want to fall asleep again and never wake up.

Then he remembered it wasn’t a dream.

The little bird kissed him. The thought has struck him as unbelievable the moment it appeared in his head. But this was what happened.

Every night he went to sleep telling himself she cannot possibly get any prettier, and every morning her loveliness took his breath away anew. He saw the looks the other men gave her, and felt the anger rising inside him. He kept the fury bubbling, cherished it. It prevented him from leering at her himself. He was her dog, and he knew his place. But every now and then his resolve gave way to her charms, and he found himself mesmerised by the auburn locks, slender neck, gracious figure, budding breasts, longing to reach, touch, _feel_...

But he never, ever imagined she could touch him first. His initial reaction was complete and utter horror. Then it was pain and anger at the unbearable thought that she’d being using him, teasing him. And then all the thoughts were obliterated from his mind, leaving it blank and useless.

He swore.

Whatever madness seized her, she clearly didn’t understand how close he was to throwing her to the bed and taking her like a common wench. She was only three-and-ten, never married, never even properly betrothed. Thanks gods the golden-haired Lannister brat was only a boy, otherwise she might have suffered much more than beatings. It was her gasp of pain that stopped him yesterday, making him realize he was hurting her. He didn’t want to hurt her. He’d kill anyone who would.

He had left her chamber, but it was no good. The memories of her lips, her skin, her tender fingers were haunting him, tormenting him. Every moment he had to stop himself from returning back to her and claiming her.

He even considered leaving her service. Laughable. He had nowhere to go. The only place he had in the world, the only place he wanted to be, was here, at her feet.

He used the only way of escape he knew.

Today, the madness seem to have abated somewhat, but for how long? He haven’t seen his little bird yet.

Now that he thought of it, he felt a prickle of unease. He’d half-expect her to be sitting here, waiting for him to wake up. That’s what she did in Riverrun, didn’t she? When they shove him into that dungeon, he was almost grateful. In his cell he could safely dream about her all he wanted without risk of actually harming her. When he managed to lay his hands on wine, he drank himself into a blissful oblivion, imagining hundreds of ways of having Sansa Stark in the mud and mold and dirt of the road. And when he woke up, she was sitting next to his bed in a tidy, brightly-lit room, with her hair brushed, her gown new, and her face so pretty and innocent he could not help being ashamed of all the black thoughts he entertained just a short while ago.

Presently his gloomy thoughts were pushed aside by worry. How long has he been out? Where is little bird? On the way to visit that tetchy aunt of hers she said something about reading to the little brat, Lord Robert. But this was yesterday. Where is she now?

Sandor walked out into the corridor and knocked at the door to the little bird’s chamber. There was no answer. He opened the door and took a look inside. Empty. Little lord it is, then. Probably she’s reading to him again.

He started down the corridor, then stopped and frowned.

Something was not right.

The rooms and passages were dead quiet around him, but from down below came vague echo of... shouting?

He ran.

He did not know Eyrie at all. All he remembered was the marble staircase leading down to the entrance chamber, and the corridor they took to go to that big sinister hall where the boy lord tried to condemn him to death the day they arrived.

And the shouts were coming from there. Seven hells.

When he approached the door, the guards didn’t notice him. They were busy pounding at the great carved door, roaring to be let in. The other servants were coming running as well, wondering at the ruckus. From they words he figured that little bird indeed was inside, with Lady Lysa and some singer. They didn’t mention Littlefinger, but he knew enough of the man to suspect he would not be far away, either.

He darted sideways, grabbed some shabby-looking lad who looked vaguely familiar and threw him against the stone wall.

‘Where is the other entrance?’ he growled.

The boy’s eyes bulged. In them Sandor saw the reflection of his own scarred face, contorted with fury and horror. A monster.

‘T-the other ent-trance, my lord?’

He recognized the voice. The kitchen boy who brought him wine yesterday.

‘The one behind the dais! I know there is a door, I’ve seen it. Take me there now or I’ll kill you.’

The lad nodded feverishly. Sandor let go off him, and dashed after him into a narrow corridor. He was dimly aware of some silent chambers, richly furnished and luxuriously draped, through which they scurried making for their goal. The boy was panting, gulping for air, but Sandor barely noticed it, possessed by fear.

He left his little bird alone. He was only good at one thing, guarding her against anything that dared to harm her, and he failed. Now she’s in there, in the hall with the creepy hole in the wall, together with that honey-tongued double-faced bastard and the crazy cow they call her aunt.

He saw a small carved door, and at the same instance he heard a scream. Her voice.

The world went red.

He might have torn the door off the hinges if it wasn’t already open.

The little brat and his cow wife were standing right at that damned wall door that was wide open. Beyond was white sky, falling snow, and nothing else.

Nothing.

Littlefinger turned his head towards him. Yes. Look into my eyes, you bloody bastard. This will be the last thing you will see in your life.

Littlefinger’s lips moved.

He was almost on him when the words sank in.

‘Take the girl and go let the guards in, Clegane.’

Sandor whirled on the spot, scanning the High Hall wildly... and saw her. She was on the floor, her arms wrapped tightly around a stone pillar, her pale face terrified.

He dropped on his knees next to her, his sword clanging on the cold marble floor. Her hands were cold, too, and he had difficulty disengaging her fingers from the smooth stone surface she pressed them against.

Then she finally let go off the pillar at clutched at him instead. He wrapped an arm around her delicate shoulders and shove another under her knees, picking her up. Her hands wrapped around his neck, gripping madly, while he was running towards the massive door at the entrance. It was closed, and there was a thick spear put barring it from the inside. Sandor lifted it one-handedly and then reeled sideways, giving way to the guards in cream and blue cloaks.

‘Quick,’ came Littlefinger’s voice. ‘Seize this singer. He just killed my lady wife.’

***

Sansa found herself abed.

She felt shocked and sick. Random visions of what happened were flying, unbidden, through her mind. ‘You’re just like your mother!’ came the hysterical shriek. ‘Coming here and demanding something you have no rights to! You enticed him, charmed him with those smiles and wanton looks and dancing. You danced with him down below, don’t you think I don’t know!’ Lady Lysa’s hysterical sobbing, puffy face, implacable hands, shoving her mercilessly towards the white nothingness below...

 _She wanted to push me through the Moon Door._

Sansa shuddered. Her own aunt wanted to kill her. Only because she saw her husband feeding Sansa some pomegranate.

And then Sandor was there, his arms engulfing her, taking her to safety. She didn’t remember much of it, just the smell of him and the overpowering desire to clutch at him and never let go.

Sansa opened her eyes a little, taking a peek around. She was in her own chamber. The door was opened, and she could make out Sandor’s massive silhouette outside. _He is here. I am safe._

She heard the metallic clanging of the mail as the Hound shifted his position, mirrored by similar sounds further down the corridor, along with the soft footsteps.

‘I am here to visit Lady Sansa,’ came the familiar quiet voice. ‘Be so kind to step aside, Clegane.’

Sandor made no move to obey.

‘You think I’d let you anywhere near her?’ His voice was a fierce growl. ‘After what happened?’

‘That’s exactly what I think. I rescued her as you might recall. Now, let me in.’

The Hound ignored that.

‘Only you could give a bird to a cat to play with, snatch the poor thing away the last moment, and call it rescue.’ He spat.

‘And where were you, her sworn shield, when she needed you?’ Littlefinger’s voice was sharper and shrewder now.

The Hound broke into barking laughter that sounded positively demented.

‘Want to play on my guilt?’ He growled. ‘Go to hell. Or come closer, and I’ll send you there.’

Sansa heard the clanging metallic noise again. Whoever was with Littlefinger must have moved to the front, ready to defend his lord.

‘She cannot stay locked forever.’ It was Lord Baelish again. ‘At some point she will need to eat and drink.’

‘Then I’ll take her to the kitchens.’ The Hound responded. ‘I know the way. And I’ll make your cook taste everything she eats.’

‘There is no need for that,’ said Littlefinger coldly. ‘What do you think I’ll do, poison her? She is a guest here!’

‘I’ve seen what guest right means in here.’

‘I mean her no harm. What happened in the High Hall this afternoon was a gruesome misunderstanding.’

‘I understood it well enough.’

‘I’ll have some food and wine delivered here.’ Lord Baelish said firmly. ‘I will not have my guest starved because of a rabid dog. And when she gets better, I’ll come to talk to her, and I won’t ask your permission. I am the Lord Protector of the Vale, as you might remember.’

‘And she is the damned Queen of the North. Now stop your chatter and come die like a man. Or get out of my sight.’

***

Lord Baelish did come to talk to her. This time it was Sansa who asked Sandor to let him in, and eventually her sworn shield had to obey.

Petyr expressed his deepest regret about the terrible incident in the High Hall. He told her how Marillion the singer loved his lady wife secretly, and got seized by a fit of jealousy that made him push Lady Lysa through the open door. He told her about the Lords of the Vale coming to the Eyrie to hear the details of the matter. He shared the concerns about her health and little Lord Robert well-being. He sounded sad and forlorn, a grieving husband who had lost his beloved companion.

His words were coming to her as if through a thick wall.

This man had loved her mother and understood Sansa better than anyone before. He knew all her concerns. Sometimes she thought he could guess her thoughts..

He hold a dagger at her father’s throat. And when Lord Eddard was thrown into a dungeon, he didn’t do anything to help him.

He knew how to play game of thrones, and she was such a helpless player. He could figure out the way to reclaim Winterfell without having to marry anyone.

He brought her here, to the woman whose love for him was so obsessive she couldn’t abide any other female in his presence, and to the sickly boy, who nearly executed Sandor for no good reason but his face.

He always gave her apt counsel.

His every word was a lie.

Behind her, the Hound stood like a big sulking shadow.

***

The Lords of the Vale arrived on the morrow. Lord Baelish had the trestle table set in the solar, with eight heavy oak-and-leather chairs around it, but Lords Declarants would have none of it. They insisted to hearing the matter out in the High Hall.

Sansa was called as a witness. She was still weak and the view of the High Hall made her knees tremble, but she entered with her head high and her back straight.

When it was her turn to tell what happened, she was ready. She told them everything. How Lord Baelish accidentally incurred her aunt’s wrath upon her and how he intervened just in time when Lady Lysa was struggling to push her. She saw the faces of the Arryn bannermen darken, and Petyr’s pale complexion to get paler still.

Then it was time for the most important testimony.

‘I haven’t seen who killed my aunt,’ she said, and saw Littlefinger’s eyes gleam a bit. ‘Sandor was making towards the door, and I wasn’t looking.’

The gleam turned into flare of confidence.

‘But before Lady Lysa... fell,’ Sansa continued, ‘she said something. Something about tears. About how Lord Baelish told her to put tears in Lord Jon’s wine, and she did. For Robert, she said.’

It was this memory that helped her to reach the final decision. King Robert Baratheon summoned lord Eddard Stark to King’s Landing to replace Jon Arryn as a Hand. If it was not for Lord Arryn’s death, Sansa’s family would still be whole and alive. If it was for the short man who asked her to call him Petyr and danced with her and talked to her with such care in his voice, Winterfell would still stand tall and proud.

A sound went around the hall, as if a dozen of people were drawing the air through the clenched teeth.

‘The tears of Lys,’ Lord Nestor whispered incredulously.

Bronze Yohn Royce cursed under his breath.

‘Are you quite sure about it, child?’ said Lady Waynwood sharply.

‘Keep your voice down, old haggard.’ The Hound rasped. ‘You’re speaking to the Queen of the North.’

Sansa saw Lady Waynwood’s eyes widen, then narrow. But the woman sounded queerly submissive when she spoke again.

‘Are you positive you heard her lordship say it, Your Grace?’ she asked politely.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘My aunt was crying, and Petyr... Lord Baelish said there was no need for tears. And Lady Lysa replied it’s not what he said in King’s Landing. She put the tears into the wine, and then wrote to my mother and told her the Lannisters had killed her lord husband.’

‘Enough,’ Bronze Yohn said grimly. ‘I don’t think we need to take this any further.’ He looked at the other Lords Declarants, as if waiting for objections, but none came.

‘I can see that nobody here is going to grant me the right to defend myself,’ said Lord Baelish. He spoke softly and sadly, but it was the first time Sansa saw such a wild look in his green-gray eyes. ‘My lady wife was mad with jealousy. She didn’t know what she was saying... ’

His words were cut off by the grave, commanding voice:

‘I, Yohn of the House Royce...’

Sansa inhaled sharply, a guess flying through her mind about what was about to happen.

‘...Lord of Runestone and a bannerman of the House Arryn...’

Petyr’s eyes traveled towards her.

‘...sentence you to die.’

By Lord Royce’s sign, the guard in cream and blue went to unlock the weirwood door in the wall. Sansa felt her own lips going numb, but she still managed to pronounce a word.

‘No,’ she said.

She heard a rasped curse behind her. She saw a hint of a glitter in the green-grey eyes before her.

‘My lady...’ Bronze Yohn started.

‘No,’ she repeated, her voice steadier now. ‘Not the Moon Door.’

The Lord of Runestone looked at her, his bushy eyebrows in one thick line.

‘The Northern way,’ she explained.

The Hound was the first who grasped her meaning.

‘A sword,’ he rasped. ‘The she-wolf wants the bugger beheaded.’

Now all eyes were on her, doubting, questioning, disbelieving.

She nodded.

They needed no more proof. In a heartbeat, Littlefinger was brought on his knees, his head on the stone bench, Bronze Yohn Royce standing next to him with his greatsword unsheathed.

Petyr Baelish kept his gaze locked with Sansa’s. When the sword touched the back of his neck, probing, he winced and whispered his last words.

‘Please. Cat.’

The last thing he saw in his life were her eyes, Tully blue.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is still in the Vale, facing hard decisions, and she seeks a way of consolation and making things better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. This story is about to get vastly political, so I’m taking my last chance to go SanSan before setting the topic aside for a long while. That’s Westeros for you. Noone can afford to just sit there snogging. People would always pop up, interrupt whatever you were doing and start demanding things.

‘I... I’m afraid I don’t understand, Uncle,’ she breathed out, staring at Brynden Tully in plain horror. ‘You are advising me to marry a _Frey_?’

The Frey envoys did make an appearance in the Vale, much to general disgust. Old Walder Frey evidently had too many spare sons if he decided he could afford to send some of them to the suicidal mission of asking for the Queen of the North’s hand. To honour her brother’s agreement, he had a nerve to announce. It was clear Freys were seeking the ways to regain influence since Edmure Tully and his wife had been taken from Emmon Frey by Jaime Lannister; but nobody expected the known traitors to be so bold to offer alliance to the girl whose family they recently murdered.

In return the Lord of the Twins promised to give the Queen of the North and her followers (as if there are any, she thought bitterly) a free passage through the Neck, along with help with recapturing Winterfell from the ironmen. The offer was downright insulting, and the only thing that saved Rhaegar and Jared Freys from being executed on the spot was their title of envoys.

Uncle Brynden joined Sansa in the Vale weeks after the Freys’ departure, after a long and dangerous journey from the fallen Riverrun. She has been waiting for him anxiously, one of the reasons being her telling Lord Nestor she couldn’t make any marital decisions until her uncle’s arrival. She was hoping for his council. And now he was here, shocking her by an unbelievable suggestion to accept Freys’ proposal. Why on earth would she do that?

‘Did the river water do something to your brains, Blackfish?’ the Hound rasped from behind her chair. ‘Or were they the fish brains to begin with?”

Sansa clasped her hands together imploringly. Lord Brynden was a stern man, unlikely to put up with rude remarks of some sworn shield. Blackfish did turn his head to face the Hound; however, the look her uncle was giving Sandor was grave, but not angry. It was almost... calculating.

‘Lord Clegane,’ Blackfish said curtly. ‘We need to talk.’

***

Sansa sought refuge in her chamber, still dizzy because of the sudden turn her future plans were taking.

Most of all she wanted to talk to Sandor about it. Her sworn shield and her uncle spent about an hour in intense conversation in the quiet end of the great hall, while Sansa was pointedly asked to join Myranda and Lord Nestor at the dinner table. After that, to her astonishment, the Hound never raised a single objection to the madness Lord Brynden was suggesting.

However, discussing anything with Sandor was out of question. Not only because Uncle Brynden had made it clear that he had forbidden the Hound to reveal the details of the matter to her. The problem was in the Hound himself. Sansa sighed, reaching for her needlework.

He didn’t drink a drop since their hasty return from the Eyrie. He didn’t talk to her, either, unless it was absolutely necessary. He seemed to be enveloped into thick, brooding anger. She knew he blamed himself for what had happened at the Moon Door, but there was something else in his bearings these days that gave her an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. It was almost as if he hated her, although she knew he didn’t. Why would he stay in her service otherwise?

She wanted to do something for him, to take him out of this strained silence, to return the smile, mocking and twitchy as it was, to his lips. If she were a real queen she’d grant him some lands, or present him with a weapon made of Valyrian steel, or give him a handsome amount of gold to express her gratitude and good will. But all she owned was an empty title.

Then, one day, it came to her. Sansa smiled at her needlework, making sure the stitches are neat and smooth.

She had to endure a bunch of knowing looks and sly questions from Myranda, but finally she managed to coax from the older girl a vaguely rectangular strip of yellow silk left from a ruined summer dress. She had to be inventive to cut it into the right shape, but in the end she got what she wanted. A tabard, wide enough to fit the Hound’s broad shoulders, long enough to fell to his knees, and loose enough to be worn on the top of the armor. The silk leftovers, cut and sewn smartly, made a quite passable sash. Glad with her idea, Sansa spend a couple of evenings embroidering the three hounds of Sandor’s sigil on the surcoat chest, humming softly and thinking about the way of presenting her sworn shield with his new tabard.

She imagined the great hall of the Gates of the Moon, full of people, with herself in the middle and the Hound knelt in front of her, as it should be when a queen has decided to bestow a favor on her subject. The picture made her sigh happily, but her excitement was soon replaced by the wave of unease. Sandor was not famous for accepting favors readily. In King’s Landing, he mocked his white cloak and refused to take the knight’s vows. In Riverrun, he scowled every time anybody called him a lord. Even from her own experience Sansa knew that he couldn’t take any word of compassion or consolation directed at him without saying something snappy in return. And all this was there before he lapsed into the state of silent rage he’d been in for the last two months.

So, she discarded the idea of presenting Sandor with something in public. She’d better do it in private. This way, nobody will hear his surly snarls. And if he takes it into his head to refuse, she will have a chance to persuade him, something she’d never dared to do in front of other people.

When the last stitches were placed, she spent a couple of moments examining her work to make sure it looks as perfect as she wanted it to be. It did.

She glanced at the window. It was already dark outside. She lost track of time in her hurry to finish her work. But now it was completed, and she didn’t want to wait any longer.

Sansa went to the door, opened it and waited for her sworn shield to turn towards her.

‘Please, step inside, my lord,’ she said, careful to keep her tone even and polite. Since the Eyrie Sandor developed a habit of never staying closer than a yard from her doors. ‘I have something to give you.’

He hesitated, but her dainty tone must have persuaded him. He followed her into the chamber, stopping mere inches from the threshold, so she had to motion him further to be able to close the door. Then he just stood there, his expression wary.

She turned graciously to the table, picked the carefully folded tabard and turned back, drawing to her full height.

‘My lord,’ she started. ‘Please accept this gift as a token of my gratitude for your faithful services.’

The expression on the man’s face was most peculiar. From the moment he saw the three hounds on yellow silk, his eyes seemed to soften. His furrowed brow smoothed down, and she believed she saw a ghost of actual smile on his ruined lips.

Encouraged by the reaction, Sansa moved to the next part. To be honest, right now she was relieved she had decided against doing this in public. She was about to give him a command he might not be inclined to follow. He may even laugh her in the face. She drove the thought away.

‘Be so kind to kneel, my lord.’

Still gazing on the fabric dreamily, the Hound went on one knee, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword. Exhilarated, Sansa unfolded the surcoat and draped it over his shoulders, on top of his leather armor. Her heart sang when she saw that the width fit perfectly.

‘Arise, my lord.’

He rose to his feet, still having the soft, faraway look to his eyes. Sansa took the sash and tied it around his waist, then took a step back to admire the view. Sandor looked splendid. The bright fabric glowed, overshadowing his worn boots, plain brown breeches and battered leather vest.

The giving-the-gift moment was over, but Sansa was dreaming about it for too long to let it go so soon. Her mind raced in search of something else she could do to prolong it. She blushed when the idea came to her; but then, why not? Queen Nymeria did it, when lord Mors Martell helped her to win her first battle of Dorne. The queen wed the lord afterwards, admittedly, but it was _later_. And in songs, queens and ladies fair did it all the time, blessing the knights leaving to war or greeting them back from the battlefield.

Sansa stepped towards the Hound and kissed him lightly. She meant it to be a short, queenly kiss of a liege-to-subject kind, a gesture of honour and appreciation. She was not going to repeat the mistake she made in the Eyrie, when her wanton behavior caused him to leave her side, if only temporarily.

But somehow, once the kiss started, she couldn’t make herself to end it. Perhaps it was because the Hound stood still, with his hands hanging limply on his sides and his mouth unyielding. Why wouldn’t he embrace her? How could he be so... so... impassive?

Standing on tiptoes was not a position she was accustomed to. Sansa lost her balance and grabbed his shoulders to steady herself. A heartbeat later she felt his hands on her waist. _Finally._

His lips were moving now, pressing to hers, but it was not the raw pressure, hungry and demanding, that she experienced in the Eyrie. Now he was gentle, holding her as if she were some fragile thing that could break any moment. It’s not that she wanted him to go aggressive, but it was weird not to feel anger behind his actions.

Then his mouth left hers. She felt it moving along her jaw line and then down, to the shoulder. The Hound buried his face into her hair, the good side of his face against her neck, and inhaled deeply. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down her spine.

His hand went to her other shoulder, caressing a long auburn lock, following it all the way down to her breast. Sansa bit her lip. Positively, the top of her dress was cut way too high. His fingers left her skin, and now their touch was dulled by the fabric of her bodice.

He licked her cheek right next to her ear. Sansa giggled. It was something Lady would do, long time ago, back in Winterfell.

‘Sansa,’ the Hound whispered hoarsely to her ear, and then half-kissed, half-licked the way back to her lips. When his mouth was on hers again, she responded eagerly, drinking at the sense of warmth and safety and something else, something that made her cling to him, as if he was returning her something she didn’t know she had lost. His thumb caressed her nipple through the bodice, just as she wanted it to, just as she imagined it for countless times since the Eyrie. Only in her dreams there was no fabric between his fingers and her skin.

She squeezed her eyes shut, giving herself to the sensation. Her legs gave way, but this time she didn’t bother steadying herself. She knew he’d hold her.

He did, indeed, grab her tighter, but then she felt the movement of air around them. He was lowering her on the bed. And coming with her.

The thought of this being improper flew briefly thought her mind, and disappeared, washed away by the wave of emotions. His kisses were getting hungrier now, his hands bolder. His eyes were closed, but it didn’t hinder him from unlacing her bodice. When he tugged at the fabric, trying to pull the dress down, she found herself wiggling to help him getting her out of it. After all, what bad could happen? Surely, he’d never do anything that could harm her. She’ll let him touch her for just another moment before asking him to stop.

She was left in a cotton chemise. He brushed his fingers at the shoulder strap, moving it down almost to the elbow. Her breast was now bare, instantly covering with goosebumps at the chill of the autumn breeze coming through the open window.

He licked her nipple.

She arched against him, half-astonished, half-frightened. He sucked, and she gasped. She wanted him to let go, but when he did, she found herself aching for him to do it again.

‘You are truly a woman now,’ he muttered, his breath hot against her skin. ‘So pretty... so _sweet_.’ The last word was almost a moan.

She tried to think about a reply, but a new attack on her nipple stole her breath away.

‘Sandor...’ she managed. The sound of his own name seemed to have a strange effect on him. His kisses became almost ferocious. One of his hands gripped the back of her neck, while another moved down her leg and then up, dragging the chemise with it. She was shocked when she felt his thumb on the inner side of her thigh, moving up, up, sliding underneath her smallclothes, until it reached the bush of hair that quite recently appeared at the juncture of her legs.

Sansa had little education on what is supposed to happen in marriage bed, but conversations with Myranda Royce enlightened her enough to understand what the Hound‘s actions may come to. _Is he going to take my maidenhead?_ No, she couldn’t believe it. This was not something people did on a whim. A man and a woman are supposed to be married before doing this, to exchange vows in front of men and gods. Sandor was just... just...

He tugged at the chemise, making it go all the the way to her waist, and then dragged the crumpled thing down to her feet in one movement. The shirt joined the discarded dress, the smallclothes followed a moment later, and then his hands and mouth were on her anew, exploring her naked body. One hand slipped between her legs, and she was mortified to feel his fingers on the spot where noone touched her before, where she couldn’t even imagine someone can touch her...

‘Sandor!’ She tried to wiggle free, but he leaned on her with all his weight, pressing her into the mattress. His eyes were closed again, his breath was coming out ragged, his grip on her was iron. She realized there was no way of stopping him now. ‘He knows what he is doing’, she told herself, trying to suppress the panic raising in her chest. Her heart was pounding loudly, her body was weak with fear. _Even if he does take my maidenhead, he’ll know what to do after._

And then they heard a shout.

It came from the open window, from somewhere down in the courtyard.

‘FIRE!’

Sandor’s head snapped up. It was dark outside, but now the darkness was dimmed by grey smoke, the sharpness of autumn air spoilt by heavy tones of burning wood and straw. Sansa briefly wondered how could she not notice it before.

There were more shouts from the yard, the neigh of frightened horses, the sound of running feet from downstairs.

The Hound snarled. Sansa felt his arms tense, locking around her protectively. Then his eyes traveled back to her and widened, as if seeing her for the first time. The expression of sheer terror distorted his face almost beyond recognition.

He rolled, getting out of the bed, and then grabbed Sansa’s hand and pulled, making her get to her feet as well. Then he rummaged through the coverlets, found her chemise and tossed it at her. While she was clumsily putting it back on, he yanked the ends of his sash madly, undid it and took his new surcoat off with such ferocity he almost tore it apart.

‘The bloody rug,’ he growled, shoving the tabard into Sansa’s unresisting hands. The ruined sash dropped on the floor, but the Hound paid it no mind. He grabbed Sansa roughly into his arms and carried her out of the smoky room.

The courtyard was full of people, most of them wearing their night things, just like Sansa did. Those who didn’t were running around, getting the water from the well and splashing it over the charring wood, trying to tame the flames.

Sandor moved through the crowd, determined to take her as far from the fire as possible. They almost collided into Lord Brynden who was making towards them.

‘Thanks Seven, you’re all right,’ Blackfish said to Sansa, as Sandor lowered her to her feet. ‘Gods, Clegane, couldn’t you wrap her into something? The girl is shivering! Here, Sansa, get my cloak.’ He helped her wrap herself into the warm brown wool.

‘I took her right out of bed,’ the Hound rasped dispassionately.

‘And what is this?’ Lord Brynden asked, looking at the tangled mass of yellow silk in Sansa’s hands.

‘I... I was finishing some needlework...’

‘Right,’ her uncle said without much interest. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re fine. The flames erupted right under your windows.’

‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘The stables took fire. But we managed to save almost all the horses,’ he nodded towards the patch where the frightened animals were tethered. Sandor’s Stranger was amongst them, sniffing noisily.

‘That one is a beast,’ Uncle Brynden said darkly. ‘Broke out on his own, and almost trampled one of the lads. Wicked animal.’

Sansa frowned, puzzled. How come they never notice the commotion in the yard? Stranger must have screamed like crazy, and Sandor has always been attentive when it came to his stallion.

She glanced sideways at the Hound, standing next to her. He was looking at the fire, his hands balled in fists, his face unreadable, his eyes narrowed.

He was looking at the fire.

 

***  
Fool. Oaf. Bonehead. Dumbbell. Bloody idiot.

And he thought the Eyrie was close. Damned fool!

How could he let this happen?

He didn’t want to enter the girl’s bedchamber. He made a promise to himself of never doing it again. But she gave him an order. And she had that busy look about her. It fooled him.

He accepted her gift. If it was anything else, he’d throw it back at her. Well, probably not throw, but hand it back and leave the room. But the damn yellow thing was bloody beautiful. And made by his little bird, embroidered by her little hands. It’s been so long since he was presented with something he actually might enjoy. The Lannister brat gave him the white cloak, and the Stark boy made him a lord, but only little bird had the sense of giving him something that held some value for him.

And then, of course, she decided to play the queen, all this kneeling, granting favors and such. Still astounded, he let her have her way, until at some point she was kissing him again. He tried to stand still, to wait for her madness to pass. But she staggered, he moved his hands to steady her, and that was the end of his resolve. The only thought that lingered in his mind - not even a thought but a rule at the back of his head - was to not hurt her. And he even forgot that, taken away by her loveliness, by the sweetness of her lips, by the softness of her skin, by the closeness of her body.

He almost fucked her there, in her bedchamber. What was he thinking?

He knew the answer to that. He wasn’t thinking. He was reacting.

It was like in a battle. In a fight, he didn’t think. He just fought, striking and parrying, without bothering to run the actions through his head.

When she gave him that bloody surcoat, it was like in a dream. She put it on him herself, and her little hands encircled him when she was tying up the sash. And then she kissed him, sending him spinning into the chasm of lust. What was she thinking?

But no, he couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know what she was doing to him. She was still half a child. And, which was worse, she was already half a woman. It was time for her to sharpen her woman skills. At her age, Cersei had snogged every squire in her father’s castle, or so he heard. Perhaps his little bird also decided to get some practice.

But why him? The keep was teeming with young men, each of them more handsome and gallant than the last.

He imagined his little bird kissing some good-looking, honey-tongued knight and felt his blood boil. Then he remembered her naked body pressed against his and groaned, torn between shame and desire.

‘Bugger it,’ he swore under his breath, banging his fist against the cold stone of the nearby wall.

This shouldn’t happen again. This won’t happen again. He was pretty sure she will not let it happen again, now that she is aware of just how selfish and thoughtless he can be. Most likely, she’ll send him away, out of her sight. That will do. He’ll pick up fight with the first bunch of road bandits he meets, the more the merrier. Or even better, he’ll go with her to Twins and get killed in that madness Blackfish came up with.

Either way will be good for her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is going to the Twins to marry some Frey and reforge the alliance the marriage of her brother has broken.

'You're a queen,' Brynden Blackfish said quietly. 'And as such, you will encounter lots things you will not like. Dubious alliances. Soulless marriages. Lies. Blood.'

Sansa glanced sideways at Hound. He was sitting at the fire, not too close, looking into the flames, his face blank. Does he have to be brooding all the time? It's been ages since they left the Gates of the Moon, but he still stiffened every time he looked at her.

'Yes, Uncle,' Sansa sighed. 'I understand. There are things I must do, even if I don't want to do them. It's just ... why Freys? They killed my brother!'

'Because he broke his word, aye. But they will not kill you, if that's what you're concerned about.'

'They still can kill _you_ ,' Sansa pointed out. 'Or worse, they can sell you to Lannisters!'

'Not with us around,' came the voice from behind her back.

Sansa shrieked, startled. Hound was on his feet immediately, shielding her with his body. But he didn't look murderous, just alert.

A lean figure appeared from the bushes. Young man, trim and slim, with narrow face and foxy features and mouth so wide that his smile seemed to touch his ears.

'Well met, Blackfish,' he said.

'Tom. Lem.' Lord Brynden nodded curtly. Another figure strode out of the night, a big man with crooked green teeth and a broken nose. He was draped in the yellow cloak.

'The rest? asked Blackfish.

'Coming,' was a short reply.

'Who are those people?' asked Sansa nervously, watching more and more men pour from the thickets of shrubbery.

'Allies,' Blackfish answered in the dark tone that made her remember the phrase he said just recently. 'We're not going to the Twins alone.'

***

The forest seemed to draw back, its darkness conquered with fires. There were about fifty of them - gaunt, worn men, clad in roughspun rugs, boiled leather, and bits of ill-fit dead men's armor. Sansa have heard of them. They called themselves Brotherhood without Banners, and were led by Beric Dondarrion, the handsome knight her childhood friend Jeyne Poole used to cherish the passion for. She scanned the crowd, trying to making out the silhouette of Lord Beric, but he was nowhere to be seen.

There was a woman sitting at one of the fires, an old thing judging by her pained movements. She wore a long grey tattered robe, but her face remained hidden behind the hood.

'Who is she?' Sansa asked Uncle Brynden. 'What is she doing here?"

He shrugged.

'I've heard there was a witch in these lands. Maega, they call her. Mayhaps some of our allies want to find solace in her ointments or dim words about the future.'

'She can see the future?' Sansa said anxiously. 'I want to talk to her!'

'Don't you know your future already, little bird?' the Hound said suddenly. 'You're going to see your betrothed tomorrow. You don't need some crazy old haggard to tell you lies about his looks.'

'I was not going to ask her about my betrothed!' Sansa argued, relieved that he's talking to her again and angered by his suggestion. 'I want to know if I return to Winterfell!'

'Of course you will,' he assured grimly. 'Isn't this whole affair about that?'

***

'Hand us your weapons,' ser Aenys Frey demanded.

They were the party of twenty men, Sansa, Blackfish and the Hound included. The crowd amassed at the other side of the Great Gates of Twins looked like a hundred.

'So that you could kill us like you did her brother?' the Hound said mockingly. 'Fat chance of that.'

Ser Aenys looked at the Clegane's burned face. The Hound gave him the nastiest sneer followed by a bark of infuriating laughter. Sansa used to hate this sound; but now, looking at the face of a man who helped kill her brother, she wanted to urge the Hound to hurt him more, and not just with words.

'You are not meeting Lord Walder with the steel in your hands,' ser Aenys proclaimed.

'Oh yes we bloody well are,' Sandor replied, his grey eyes glittering with malice. 'Or we're not meeting him at all, and he can go suck on his dreams of the North.'

Sansa couldn't help but hope. _Maybe they'll refuse. Maybe I will not have to marry anyone today after all._

'We have no intentions to hurt you,' said the Frey.

'And I have all the intentions to hurt you, if you keep holding us on the bloody gate!' the Hound snarled. And the Frey stepped backwards, gesturing to the guards to give them way.

They believe the Hound to be a Lannister man, Sansa realized. Sandor was rumoured to had been bought to smuggle her out of King's Landing. He was furiously proclaimed a turncloak by Queen Cersei right after their flight, but King Joffrey never announced a price for his head. This surprised Sansa, as well as many others. Nobody was eager to do Lannisters the favor they clearly did not intend to pay for however; and by now the new rumour has spread, telling that Lannisters sent the Stark girl to her family on their own free will, in exchange for Kingslayer, the Queen's brother.

Freys didn't want to mess with Clegane if that meant messing up with Lannisters.

The party entered one of the great twin towers and began their ascent through the grey stone staircase. Did my brother also walk these steps, Sansa wondered, feeling how her throat going dry. They said the stones of these halls were wet with blood the night of the Red Wedding. Sansa could barely control her shivering. _I must be strong. I am the Queen of the North._

Lord Walder Frey was waiting for them in his solar, along with his eldest son, ser Ryman, and another son, who could only be the one they chose to be her husband. He turned out to be a boy of sixteen, bony, freckled, runny-eyed and nervous-looking. There was also about a dozen other people in the room, all armored and armed, although their blades were sheathed at the moment.

'Ser Perwyn,' Lord Walder announced, gesturing at the skinny boy. 'My fifteenth son.'

 _Fifteenth_ son? The heir of Winterfell given away to a fifteenth son? Sansa stared at her Uncle in horror.

Lord Walder must have seen the look on her face, for he chuckled unpleasantly.

'I can suggest another groom for you, girl. My forth son, Jared.' He waved his knotty hand toward yet another offspring. Sansa recognized the man on the spot. A knight long and lean of limb, clean-shaved but for a grey mustache as thin as a Myrish stiletto. He was one of the envoys lord Walder Frey sent to ask for her hand. Ser Jared had already been married once, Sansa remembered, and had a couple of children of his own.

She looked into his cold green eyes, saw his ruthless smirk and shuddered. To have this man as her lord, in her bed? Sansa suddenly felt a rush of affection towards the skinny boy.

'Perwyn it is then.' Lord Walder announced. 'But Jared will go with you to Winterfell in any case,' he added. 'Perwyn is too young to run the castle.'

My brother Robb was of his age when he went to war. She was not happy with the prospect of having ser Jared around, but hopefully she will be surrounded by enough northerners to make the presence of one more Frey tolerable.

 _No amount of northerners helped my brother, though._

‘So, do we have an agreement, Lady Stark?’

Sansa glanced to her uncle for one last time, panic rising in her chest. She is going to say the words.

Brynden Blackfish's face was as blank and emotionless as its sigil's.

‘Yes,’ Sansa managed at last. She tried to speak firmly and surely, but her voice sounded feeble to her own ears.

‘That's settled then. Let us proceed to the sept.’ Lord Frey beckoned to his wife, intending to lean on her hand to stand up.

‘Not yet,’ Uncle Brynden said. Sansa’s heart leapt.

Her Uncle stepped aside, giving way to the stooped frail figure clad in grey rugs.

‘First, we’ll hear the maega. She’ll foretell the future of the couple and tell us if your intentions are pure.’

‘As you wish,’ Lord Frey said with a chuckle.

The chuckle turned into a wheeze.

The old woman drew to her full height and brushed her hood back.

She was tall, taller then Sansa ever imagined her to be. Her hair was white and brittle, her skin a sick shade of grey and green, and she smelled like swamp and rotten weeds.

There was also something horribly familiar in her posture, in the line of her nose, in the contour of her high cheekbones...

The grey figure turned to look at her.

Sansa fainted.

***

When she came back to her senses, there was blood all around her. Dark stains marred the floor, splattered the walls. There was gore and rebound blades and broken bodies in Frey colors, and the sickening smell of death.

And there were shouts.

People were trying to break into the room from the corridor through the thick double doors. The doors already parted slightly, but two men were holding them from inside, keeping the gap narrow. The attackers could only squeeze through one by one, and there they were met by the Hound. He fought alone, striking and slashing, fending them off, bringing them down, the air around him a red mist. He looked like Stranger himself.

And over the shouts, some eerie sound was coming that made her nerves tingle and her skin crawl. It was like a voice, only coughing and gurgling, as if the one who spoke was choking on blood.

Overwhelmed, shaken, sick with shock, Sansa looked behind her shoulder numbly.

Lord Walder Frey was still alive, sitting on his high chair. Before him stood the creature Sansa would prefer to believe to be a nightmare, a ghost, a trick of imagination. Her mother was dead, Uncle Brynden said so, she cannot be standing here looking like an Other from Old Nan’s tales. She cannot be speaking in those spine-chilling, hair-raising, dreadful guggles, her blue eyes cannot be staring, murderously and mercilessly, at the small wizened man in front of her.

‘I saw you kill my son,’ said the young northman in the sheepskin jerkin who was standing next to her. ‘Now you will see me kill your sons. Your daughters. Your grandchildren. Every one of them.’

Sansa lowered her gaze. At the old man’s feet there were two corpses, the two Freys who framed his chair when the guests entered the room. His heir and the skinny boy, the fifteenth son, chosen to become Sansa’s groom. They were dead now. They were… they didn't have their heads anymore. And the creature... the creature was holding...

Sansa felt as if her insides uncoiled within her belly, fighting to leave her body. She dropped on her hands and knees, and vomited.

Suddenly, the Hound was next to her. The sounds of battle died away, along with the fighters. She could hear the retreating footsteps of the last and luckiest ones, who have realized they had no chance before they got slaughtered.

‘Look after the girl, Clegane,’ came Uncle Brynden’s voice. ‘We are going to pursue them before they get help.’

‘Gates first,’ replied the Hound, picking Sansa up from the floor, and wiping her mouth with her own long sleeve.

Brynden nodded and scurried away. Through the haze of fright and sickness Sansa saw the room was now empty, except for a score of bloodied bodies and Lord Walder Frey, still sitting on his chair. Now she realized he was tied on to it.

‘What happened?’ She asked Sandor weakly.

‘What was planned,’ the Hound rasped, dragging her unceremoniously into a corner and pushing into a chair. Then he started moving around, covering the corpses with cloaks and curtains torn from the windows. It was for her sake, she supposed, though she already saw enough to give her nightmares. ‘You don’t think anybody really intended to give you to Freys, do you? Blackfish needed a decoy. A way to get into the castle, and bring his men with him.’

‘But they are not his men,’ she said. ‘They are not from Riverrun. They are…’

‘Outlaws, aye. What difference does it make? He wanted the castle, and your lady mother wanted her revenge.’

‘She is not my mother!’ Sansa shrieked hysterically.

‘She certainly doesn’t look as pretty as she did when I last saw her,’ the Hound agreed. ‘Damn, she nearly gave me a start, and I knew what was coming. You should have seen what her appearance did to them. They literally pissed their pants at the sight of her. They were stunned for good dozen of heartbeats, and that’s all we needed.’

Sansa felt like retching again.

‘What happens now?’ she asked, fighting down the nausea. There were shouts from downstairs.

‘Now your mother is going to open the gates and let the rest of her men in, to even the forces. And then they are going to storm the other tower, where most of the Freys will most likely end up. Don’t ask me how your mother's men are going to manage that. I told them the tower would be a problem, but the stupid dead woman hardly listened.’

Sansa had no desire to ask anything of this sort. She didn’t think she could bear the answers. Her mother, transformed into some horrendous undead… thing, her unwanted marriage, turned into a blood bath. No, she didn’t want to know any more about this.

But it may be she needed to know.

‘We’ll have to move somewhere where we can see what’s happening,’ she heard herself say. The Hound stared at her in disbelief. ‘We don’t want anybody to come here while all our men are away, and take us hostages.’

‘If anybody comes here, I’ll kill them,’ the Hound laughed.

There was a creaking sound from the doors.

Sandor whirled, sword at hand, ready to strike. Sansa shrieked, staring wide-eyed at the huge grey shadow, landing on all four in front of them.

‘Nymeria, still!’ came a fierce young voice, so unbelievably familiar Sansa felt like fainting again.

‘Bugger me,’ the Hound growled incredulously. ‘The little brat. The smaller sister.’

‘You!’ shouted a skinny, dirty apparition, brandishing a thin, narrow blade.

‘Arya!’ Sansa squealed, having finally found her voice.

She hurried to hug her sister, but Arya pushed her hands away.

‘What is he doing here?” she asked Sansa accusingly, pointing at Sandor with her ridiculous sword.

‘He’s my sworn shield,’ Sansa replied fervently, still trying to throw her arms around her little sister.

‘He killed Mycah!’ Arya declared.

‘Who’s Mycah?’ Sansa and the Hound asked together.

‘The boy I was practicing with when you and your precious Joffrey came! On the Kingsroad, on our way from Winterfell!’

Sansa remembered. The fight by the river. The one which cost her her direwolf.

‘Nymeria, get him!’ Arya commanded, but, surprisingly, the huge grey beast paid no mind. It was standing next to the old Lord Frey, eyeing him menacingly.

‘Don’t you dare touch Sandor!’ Sansa shouted, while Arya was trying to go around her to the spot where Hound stood, laughing.

‘At least you are not afraid to look me in the face,’ he said. ‘I’ll grant you that.’

‘Your face is burned and ugly!’ Arya snapped. ‘And you are a murderer! I’ll kill you!’

‘Arya, stop!’ Sansa pleaded. Then, she remembered the tourney of the Hand. She drew herself into her full height and commanded: ‘Stop this madness, in the name of your Queen!’

Arya froze albeit more out of surprise. Even Nymeria yelped her astonishment.

‘What queen?’ Arya asked.

‘Me,’ Sansa explained. ‘I’m the Queen of the North, you know. With Robb gone.’

‘And bloody well happy about it, aren’t you?’ Arya sneered. ‘Glad to finally put the stupid crown on your head?”

‘That’s enough!’ Sansa cried, feeling the tears swelling in her eyes. ‘I pleaded Robb not to go to that wedding. I begged him! But it was no good, no good, same as with Joff when I pleaded for the life of our father…’ tears were now trickling down her cheeks. ‘I couldn’t stop him, and he went there, and now he is dead and Winterfell is ruined, and Aunt Lysa tried to push me out of the Moon Door, and my mother is a monster, and there is only death, death, death around me…’

By this time she was sobbing uncontrollably, hurt and shaken. The Hound turned his back to Arya, kneeling before Sansa, flinging his arms around her, rocking her on his lap protectively.

‘I’m sorry,’ Arya muttered. ‘For what I said. I didn’t mean it. And I... I'm really glad to see you.’ She moved closer, gave the Hound a rough push at the shoulder, and leaned to hug her sister.

That was the best thing in the world, to feel Arya's small dirty arms around her.

***

'That's exactly what I told them would happen,' the Hound snorted. 'Everybody who had more brains than a toad hid in the tower. Good luck to your mother storming it.'

They found a perfect watching spot in the small room opposite to the solar. It was obviously someone's quarters, but Sansa doubted their owner was anywhere near. The room was blissfully devoid of dead bodies, and its narrow window overlooked the courtyard and the side of the second great tower of the Twins.

Which at the moment looked completely impregnable, with its mighty stone walls and the oak door barricaded shut. Steel glistened behind the narrow windows on the higher levels - just like the one next to which they were standing - showing that whoever tries to approach the entrance to the tower would be turned into a pincushion in a matter of seconds.

'Don't call her that,' Arya said sharply. 'Call her Stoneheart. That's her name now.'

'Is it?' the Hound sounded mildly amused.

'And stone heart she has', Arya continued darkly. 'Our mother cared about me. This Stoneheart woman doesn't. She only cares for Robb and the wedding and her revenge.'

'She'll have hard time getting it now. Freys probably have plenty of supplies in that tower; they can sit inside for months unless the woman finds a way to break those doors. Other than staring at it, I mean. Wood is not so easily spooked.'

'Maybe Uncle Brynden would think of something,' Sansa ventured.

Right now, however, it didn't look like it. The great courtyard between the towers was deserted, except for a couple of sentinels watching the entrance.

A low growl came from the corridor, where Nymeria was guarding their door.

Sandor crossed the room in two easy steps and exited, joining the wolf in the passage. At the same time they heard the distant sounds of footsteps and voices, accompanied with that blood-stilling gurgling Lady Stoneheart made when talking.

Sansa turned towards the door and stopped hesitantly. The thought of seeing the lifeless creature her beautiful, delicate mother got turned into was almost too much to bear. Arya, however, slid though the door instantly.

The sound her little sister made was almost like gurgling on itself.

'You stay in the room, little bird,' the Hound said hoarsely.

 _I am a queen. I have no right to hide. Winter is coming, and there is nothing scarier than that._

'No,' Sansa whispered. 'I'll see.'

She stepped out of the room and glanced into the direction of approaching footsteps.

The creature that once had been Lady Catelyn Stark was coming back towards the solar, her robe no longer grey but red, crimson, brown from drying gore, her blue eyes glittering wildly with mad triumph, her sapphire stare so cold it could turn blood in man's veins into water and freeze it. But the most dreadful sight was what she was holding in her hands. Heads, seized by the hair, dripping blood from severed necks, men's, women's, even little boys'.

Sansa gripped the Hound's wrist tight. She never noticed when she grabbed it.

The nightmarish vision went past her without sparing their group a second glance, and entered the solar.

The heads _thumped_ when they hit the floor. The hissing sounds resumed.

'Here are your sons,' said the young northman in sheepskin jerkin. 'Here is your spawn. And now, you come with me.'

Several outlaws got to untying the Frey patriarch from his chair.

'What's this?' the Hound muttered. 'She cannot hope to exchange him. She cannot threaten to do anything with him. If she just kills him, she'll lose the only leverage she has.'

Sansa swallowed hard and then her resolve crumbled. She darted back to the room and was now retching violently, trying to erase the image that seemed to get burned on the inside of her eyelids. When Joffrey showed her the head of her father mounted on a spike she thought she'd never see anything more dreadful. She was wrong.

She didn't know how much time has passed before she heard Arya's voice at her side.

'Here,' her sister said. 'Drink this. You'll feel better.'

Sansa was dimly aware of a skin tossed into her hands. She unscrew it and took a sip.

The wine was so strong she nearly chocked. The room came into view, slightly darker than before, with Sandor and Arya sitting on the other sides of the bed she was lying on. How did she get to the bed?

'Where did you get this, little she-wolf?' the Hound snorted, snatching the wineskin from Sansa's feeble fingers.

'Gendry gave it to me,' Arya replied curtly. 'You give it back _now_.'

To Sansa's utter astonishment, the Hound complied. In fact, he almost threw the skin at Arya, then jumped to his feet and darted towards the window.

'Seven _hells_ ,' he rasped.

As Sansa turned to look at him, she became aware of strange burning smell in the air. It reminded her of the night in the Gates of the Moon, the one when she was going to give Sandor a tabard, but he took a kiss instead and almost took her maidenhead. But this smell was different, more singed somehow, more scorched. And the thickening twilight had a distinct green shade to it.

She didn't know where she found the strength to climb out of the bed and step towards the window.

Down below, the horrendous creature that was once her mother was standing at the oak doors of the barricaded tower. She was pierced by a dozen arrows but didn’t seem to notice them. In one hand she was holding a rope, the other end of which went down to the shapeless lump at her feet that used to be Lord Walder Frey. Another hand gripped something that looked like a cauldron, only now it seemed to be filled with fire instead of water.

'The wildfire!' Arya exclaimed apprehensively. 'She must have used Thoros's stash!’

 _Thoros of Myr_ , Sansa remembered. A bald man with a flaming sword. Was he also somewhere near?

‘She better step back quickly,' Arya went on. ‘Before she... oi!’

It was too late. Stoneheart was already on fire, along with the doors and the corpse at her feet. Green wild flames were searing through the thick oak doors as if they were made of paper. Through the crackle of fire they could hear the eerie hoarse hissing. Like a laugh of someone who hadn't had half of their throat.

There were also shouts coming from inside the tower, the sound of splashing water, then more shrieks as the water caught fire. The flames erupted and danced, springing up in green tides, devouring everything and everyone they fell upon.

In a matter of minutes, the great tower was ablaze.

'Seven buggering hells,' the Hound repeated, his face contorted, his eyes big and white, his gloved hand gripping the hilt of his sword madly.

 _He is afraid_ , Sansa realized. _The Hound is frightened._ Her own heart plummeted at her throat, but she put her hand on his, seeking to give him comfort.

Her touch seemed to sober him.

'We need to get out of here.' He barked. 'Now. This stuff catches like crazy.'

Together, they fled down the granite staircase, nearly running into Blackfish in the middle of it.

'Come out of the castle at once.' Lord Brynden commanded. 'If we're lucky, the flames will not spread. But we cannot be sure.'

'You lost your castle, Uncle,' Arya observed casually as they moved towards the gates, keeping as far from the flames as possible. The other members of the Brotherhood were already flocking outside, except for a dozen of archers, who were watching the entrance of the burning building, ready to shoot anyone who tries to come out.

'Maybe,' Lord Brynden answered. 'But maybe not. The tower walls are thick enough to contain the fire. Only the inside will be devastated. Pity about the stocks, though. Food is precious.'

Behind them, amongst the green rage of wildfire, Lady Catelyn Stark died the second time.

Laughing.

***

‘Boltons,’ Sansa repeated. ‘But they are Stark’s bannermen!’

They were sitting in the Twins great hall. The air still smelled burnt, but otherwise that damage was not that dramatic. The main keep survived, along with the other great tower. Like Lord Brynden predicted, the green flames got trapped within the thick granite walls. The burned tower stood still, an empty scorched shell with cracks so big one could see through them. Inside, however, there was nothing but ashes. Sansa tried not to think about it. She never realized there were women and children too, there in the tower. And now it was too late.

‘They were,’ Brynden corrected. ‘But, according to Cat, they were part of the Red Wedding.’

Sansa sighed. Will there be no end to it?

‘What do I do now, Uncle?’ she asked weakly. ‘When Roose Bolton hears about what happened in Twins, he’ll never let us near.’

‘Then we’ll need to do something that will allow us to not wait for his permission.’

‘Like what?’

‘Amass an army,’ her uncle replied matter-of-factly.

Sansa could only stare.

‘What army?’ she finally managed.

‘Your brother had eighteen thousand men fighting for him. Many died at the wedding, but certainly not all. Not even half. Most of them just scattered, returned to their homes. There is no army if there is no king. But now, they have a queen.’

‘But... but... I’ve been the queen for half a dozen of moons already. And nobody cared to... to fight for me. They only wanted to marry me for my claim and title.’

‘Now you have more than just a claim. You’re a queen with a castle. You conquered the stronghold of the house that betrayed your family. You showed you have no mercy for your enemies. You are a figure now, not a pawn.’

‘A figurehead,’ Sansa corrected wearily. ‘I had no idea of what was coming, Uncle. You never shared the plan with me.’

‘He couldn’t, and you bloody well know that,’ the Hound interrupted. ‘You’d be scared shitless. Those buggers would read the plan right off your pretty face.’

She had nothing to say to that.

'And spare me your looks,' he snorted. 'You should feel joy, not sorrow. They burned, little bird. What worst fate can you wish for your enemy?'

She had nothing to say to that either.

‘Now Lannisters will want you to swear your loyalty to Tommen.’ Lord Brynden continued.

Now, that was something she was of an opinion about.

‘Never,’ Sansa said sharply. Tommen was a sweet boy, but she will not bend knee to Lannisters. Not them.

‘I thought so. But nevertheless, I’d expect the Kingslayer to knock our doors in less than a fortnight. Also, Stannis will be expecting your fealty on the Wall. Your father supported him.’

Sansa hesitated. This was true, but something about the notion prickled her.

‘Stannis is a rightful heir to the Iron Throne,’ she agreed finally. ‘But North is now a kingdom of its own. I don’t want to undo what my brother has done. I don’t want northern widows to think their husbands had died for nothing.’

‘You’ll have hell of a time proving it to him,’ the Hound said darkly. ‘The man is spiteful and bitter, and so proud he’d walk knee-deep in shit and never stomp to get it off his boots.’

‘Stannis also has an army,’ Lord Brynden added. ‘But his goal is King’s Landing and not Winterfell. If you match his strength, he’ll not waste his men to fight you.’

‘But how do I match his strength?’ Sansa asked, exhausted. ‘You keep talking about an army, Uncle, but where do I get it? And even if I could call the banners, who’d lead them? Robb was fighting his battles himself, but I am no warrior,’ she chuckled bitterly at the idea. ‘Or are you suggesting Arya to be my war leader?’

Brynden Blackfish and Sandor Clegane exchanged glances.

‘It so happens,’ Lord Brynden said quietly. ‘That you have a man ready to fight your wars for you.’

She looked Sandor in the eyes and saw a strange peace there.

‘Sharp steel and strong arms rule the world,’ he said. ‘You’re useless at both, little bird. It’s not what you birds do. This is a job for a bloody _knight_.’

‘Or a Hound,’ she whispered.

He shrugged.

‘I fought in more battles that you can count. And never for the cause that was worth a cat’s piss to me.’ He laughed. ‘Would be nice to try something new.’

 _New_? Sansa felt her heart beat faster. Does this mean he actually _cared_ about her getting home?

‘I cannot call banners here,’ she said. ‘Not in the riverlands. We’ll need to get North first. But Winterfell is ruined...’

‘I’d start with Wyman Manderly.’ Lord Brynden said. ‘Freys held his son captive. Luckily for us, in the dungeons below the keep. Now Wylis is free, though quite weak. But by the time you get to the White Harbour, he’ll regain his health and will be able to help you negotiate with his father. If you get Wyman to renew his fealty, you’ll be in a position...’

Sansa listened, her head light and dizzy. Vision whirled, rushing past her eyes wildly. Winterfell, tall and proud, rebuilt from ashes, ready to fight off the long winter. Warm walls and flourishing green gardens. She on the high seat in the great hall with Uncle Brynden on her right and Arya on her left and the Hound behind her chair. And maybe Jon will come to visit when his duty allows. It’s been ages since she thought about Jon. Now he’s the only brother she has left. It will be so sweet to see him again...

***

Arya was sitting at the steps of the keep, sharpening that ridiculous sword of hers. Next to her, a young man was sitting, huge as a bull, with face that looked vaguely familiar to Sansa.

‘So, what did you decide?’ Arya asked.

Almost against her will, Sansa’s lips broke into a wide smile.

‘We’re going home,’ she said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister arrives at Twins somewhat earlier than everybody expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _A/N: For those who never believed chapter 9 to be the end._

Sansa was upset. She was sure Lord Brynden would accompany her to the North. Blackfish declared he was to stay in Twins, however.

‘You need someone to hold the castle for you,’ he said. ‘This bunch of thugs is good enough to man the walls, but they have to be trained to defend them. They require a leader, and a trustworthy one at that.’

Uncle was right, of course. Even if the Iron Throne doesn’t send their own troops to take Twins from the outlaws, there are still Freys left in the world. Some survived by running away from the castle during the slaughter instead of hiding in the tower with the others. They were too scattered and scarce to attempt to storm the castle by themselves knowing the captors are still there. But when they find out that the Starks had left, and Lady Stoneheart is no more, they might get bolder.

There was also Lord Emmon Frey who held Riverrun along with his wife Genna Lannister. If he still had Uncle Edmure and his wife, Sansa would pardon the Frey heir in exchange for his hostages; but Tullys belonged to Lannisters now, so it was out of question.

They sent out the whole flock of ravens, informing the northern lords of the Starks’ return. Uncle warned her she shouldn’t expect a response: most likely, by the time the letters reach their destination, she will already be half-way to the White Harbor. She was to depart within a fortnight, as soon as scouts return with the information which road was the safest to take.

***

Blackfish was wrong. Jaime Lannister arrived to Twins a mere week after the fire and steel had obliterated the red-tinged glory of the House Frey.

Sandor took his usual place behind the girl’s chair, watching Jaime intently. The man appeared to be in a light mood, but his bright green eyes were broody. Quite a contrast with the calm blue stare of the ridiculous wench behind him. Brienne the Beauty, they called her. Beauty indeed.

So it’s true Lannister lost a hand. Pity. He was a fearsome swordsman.

‘Did you decide to turn this place into a second Harrenhall?’ Lannister was saying to Blackfish. ‘Lady Sansa is already called the Red She-Wolf of the Twins’.

‘Why are you here?’ Lord Brynden asked him, ignoring the insolent japes.

'As you might know, there was a deal between me and the late Lady Stark,’ Jaime said. ‘The Young Wolf’s mother let me out of her dungeons, and I promised her I will send her daughters to her in return.’

‘Well, Sansa and Arya are here, but not thanks to you, from what I know,’ Blackfish said pointedly.

‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about,’ Lannister nodded. ‘It means I'm still indebted to Lady Catelyn. And Lannisters always pay their debts. So, what does her daughter want of me?’

Sandor saw Sansa's jaw drop. This made him smirk. Jaime never missed a chance for a good show-off, that’s for sure.

'I thought you came to demand her to kneel to Lannisters,' Lord Brynden frowned.

'To the Iron Throne,' the Kingslayer corrected smoothly. 'Although I can see why its charm could get lost on you. An ugly chair. Terribly unsettling to sit upon'.

Blackfish said nothing to that. He was looking at Lannister with a malicious glint in his eye.

'There is another option, of course.’ Jaime continued elegantly. ‘You can put me back to your dungeons and annul the deal completely.'

'I'm tempted,' Lord Brynden replied, his voice deeper, harsher. ‘But I have a reason to believe you debt to the House Stark is much bigger than you’re trying to show.’

‘Oh?’ Jaime Lannister asked lightly though his green eyes narrowed somewhat. ‘How so?’

‘You see,’ the tone of Lord Brynden was cold as steel now. ‘I happen to know the words Roose Bolton said to Robb Stark before thrusting a longsword into Young Wolf’s heart.’

Jaime gave him a look of polite incomprehension.

‘And those were..?’

 _‘Jaime Lannister sends his regards.’_

Sandor could hear little bird’s breath caught in her throat.

There was rustle of clothes as all the heads turned towards the Kingslayer. There was creaking of leather as hands gripped the sword hilts.

Jaime Lannister froze.

He might have asked ‘Who told you this?’. He might have laughed. He might have said he always did his killings by himself. Sandor knew enough of the man to expect any of these things.

Lannister did none.

He clearly realized that, however numerous his party was, he was standing surrounded in the high hall of the castle washed with blood of its previous owners that were mercilessly and brutally slaughtered for betraying the family the last descendant of which sat in front of him.

And he lacked a sword hand.

And one arrow would suffice.

When the Kingslayer finally spoke, his tone was icy with no trace of usual irony, and his eyes cut like knives.

‘Roose Bolton blemishes my name. I had no hand in the Red Wedding.’

He let the words hung in the air for some time.

‘You might know I got into the dungeons of Harrenhall on my way to the King’s Landing,’ he continued. ‘Bolton set me free. When we part company, I, thinking he was a Stark man, asked him to give my regards to Robb Stark. That’s all it was.’

Jaime stopped speaking and the hall went as silent as a crypt.

Sandor had to give it to Blackfish. The man was clever. Very clever. If he asked Lannister to deal with Bolton as a repayment of the debt Lannister owed Lady Catelyn, Jaime could as easily agree as he could back away. After all, the agreement was about hostages, not blood.

But, despite of all the Seven Kingdoms thinking otherwise, Jaime Lannister had honour. Not the stupidly proud sort of an honour the Stark boy possessed. Not the bloody unyielding sort the old Lord Stark was known for. His own, Lannister, way of honour, but honour nevertheless.

As much as Lannister liked to flaunt his nickname, he was not a cold-blood unscrupulous murderer like his father was. Jaime wouldn’t stand people talking Boltons did his killings for him. Sandor didn't know what Lannister would do, but the old flayer's life was suddenly worth much less than a heartbeat ago. Sandor wondered to which extent Tully knew what he was doing.

When the Kingslayer finally spoke again, his eyes was on Sansa.

‘I’m sorry for your losses, my lady. As much as I am enthralled by your warm hospitality, I really should be on my way. Please, name the favor you ask of me, and let’s make a deal.’

Sandor saw little bird sit straighter on her chair. What will she say now? Would it be some proud nonsense about not dealing with traitors and wordbreakers? Would she go bloody and demand his head as a repayment for the words Blackfish just announced? Would she settle on putting him back in her dungeons?

‘Lord Jaime Lannister.’ Her voice was clear and strong. ‘I demand you to deliver Lord Edmure Tully, his wife, and child to the Twins, alive and unhurt.’ She made a pause, letting the words sink in and all the heads to turn her way. Sandor felt his mouth twitch. The girl had learnt queening all right. ‘Do we have a deal?’

The Kingslayer turned to give Lord Brynden Blackfish a long calculating stare.

‘We have a deal,’ he replied.

***

Sandor knew why he felt obliged to follow Jaime when the Kingslayer nodded at him at his way out of the great hall. He served Lannisters since he was twelve. And Jaime has always been decent to him.

He also knew it was a stupid thing to do.

‘Why?’ Jaime asked, while his countless squires swarmed around saddling his horse.

‘Why what?’ Sandor grumbled.

‘Why did you leave my sister’s service? How did the Starks buy you?’

‘They made me a lord,’ he said, keeping his face carefully blank.

‘Come on. You never cared for this sort of things,’ Jaime looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘It’s the girl, right?’

Sandor said nothing.

‘If you were running away from my sister, I could understand that,’ Jaime continued. ‘But she treated you fairly, from what I hear. So, it must be the girl.’

Sandor said nothing.

'What’s so special about her?’ Jaime pressed on. ‘I mean, she is pretty and all that, but my sister is far prettier still. What did Sansa Stark do to charm you so?'

This time, the Kingslayer got a reply.

'She is a true lady,' the Hound answered.

***

‘I demand a trial,’ Arya announced. ‘He killed Mycah. He should be punished.’

The Hound snorted, but Sansa was not amused. Her little sister truly hated her sworn shield, it seemed. She tried to set her great wolf on him the moment they met. The bloodshed and the fire that followed shortly afterwards switched her mind off it for the time being, but now the hatred returned tenfold.

‘He was ordered to do it by his liege,’ Sansa told her sister patiently. ‘You cannot punish a servant for obeying an order. Now Sandor is my sworn shield and...’

‘How could you agree to this?’ Arya demanded furiously. ‘Father never took murderers into his service!’

‘Didn’t he now?’ the Hound laughed mockingly. ‘I thought it was your sister whose head was full of knights and songs.’

Sansa sighed. She loved to have Arya back, but when her sister behaved as stupidly as that, it made Sansa want to stomp her foot and run tell Mother.

‘A trial, you say.’ Sandor was saying in lazy tones. ‘Let’s make it trial by battle, why don’t we? You carry a sword, she-wolf. Can you use it?’

‘Yes I can!’

‘Oh, I don’t mean just brandishing it in the air. It takes more than a blade to make a warrior. I mean the actual killing, girl.’

‘I can kill if I want to,’ Arya spat at him. ‘And I did, in the village where the queen’s men wanted us. They killed Yoren, but they never got me and Gendry. We taught them better.’

Sansa gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

‘Arya, what are you saying? Surely you didn’t....’

‘Did you indeed?’ Sandor asked curiously.

‘And that boy in King’s Landing,’ Arya went on, ‘he wanted to seize me and take me to the queen. I killed him, too. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to kill.’

This new avowal rendered Sansa speechless. The Hound, on the contrary, seemed impressed.

‘So, you want me dead, little she-wolf. Would you face me yourself?’

Arya hesitated. But Sansa intervened before she could say anything.

‘No!’ she said. ‘Sandor, what are you saying? There will be no trial! What kind of idea is that?’

‘A very reasonable one, I’d say,’ came a voice from the hall.

Sansa became suddenly aware of a hundred eyes watching her. The hall that was half-empty when the conversation started was now full of people. She searched the crowd for Uncle Brynden, but Lord Tully was nowhere to be seen. The gaze of the young northman in sheepskin jerkin was the most intent. Sansa remembered him. He used to interpret the gurgles Lady Stoneheart made when speaking.

‘This man is known for his many killings,’ the youth went on. ‘The name Clegane is hated around the riverlands.’

‘You didn’t mind me being a Clegane when it came to storming the bloody castle,’ the Hound sneered.

‘Our lady was busy with more pressing matters. Otherwise you’d face justice much faster.’

‘Justice?’ the Hound laughed. ‘Who are you to talk of justice? Who are you to judge me?’

‘Lady Stoneheart had no reason to hate Sandor!’ Sansa interrupted. ‘Mother allowed him to swear his sword to me! My brother pardoned him!’

‘Maybe Young Wolf was too easy on him,’ said the northman in sheepskin jerkin. ‘Our lady was seeing things quite differently after the Red Wedding. She believed this man be a Lannister spy. And we all saw him talking to the Kingslayer yesterday. The dog never forgets its old masters, they say.’

‘From the way your lady talked I wouldn’t tell apart ‘Red Wedding’ and ‘good morning’,’ the Hound growled at him. ‘But if she believed me guilty she would jump me the moment she saw me, the furious thing she was. Stop putting your words into dead people’s mouths. Speak for yourself.’

The northman’s confidence seemed to quiver, but only for a moment.

‘I have no need to speak for myself,’ he declared. ‘You did. You didn’t deny you killed the boy Lady Arya was referring to.’

‘Mycah,’ Arya supplied, eyeing Sandor with rage that reminded Sansa suddenly of the Clegane’s own hatred when he spoke of his brother.

The Hound shrugged.

‘I was Joffrey’s sworn shield then. The butcher’s boy attacked the prince of the blood.’

‘Did you see the boy attack Prince Joffrey?’

‘I heard the story from the royal lips. It’s not my place to question princes. And then, your queen was there and told the same tale.’

All heads turned to Sansa.

She couldn’t believe this was happening again. If she tells the truth now, it will condemn Sandor. If she lies for him, like she did for Joffrey, Arya will never let the matter rest. Sansa felt the wave of fear rising up in her chest. Is she going to lose Sandor over this, like she lost Lady?

‘What’s the meaning of this?’

Brynden Blackfish entered the hall. He took in the situation at once: by the tension in the air, by Sansa’s striken face.

‘This man, Sandor Clegane, stands accused of murder. Lady Arya demands justice, but Lady Sansa said nothing yet.’

Blackfish threw the Hound a piercing glance.

‘Long dead butcher’s son,’ the Hound told him. ‘Cut him by royal command on the way from Winterfell to King’s Landing. Was a friend of the little she-wolf, apparently. Now she calls me a murderer.’

‘This man was obeying an order,’ said Blackfish. ‘Whether the order was just or false is not for us to say. Only gods can judge him now.’

‘My point precisely,’ said the northman. ‘We demand trial by battle.’

‘Trial by battle! Trial by battle!’ echoed through the hall.

‘Trial by battle!’ Arya joined in.

‘Seems like you may get your show, little she-wolf.’ Sandor said with a barking laughter. He favored the crowd in the hall with a look full with disdain. ‘Oh well. You will be one bugger the poorer. Who is the unlucky fellow you’re ready to put to death?’

‘Thoros of Myr!’ Arya shouted, triumphant.

The Hound stiffened. Sansa felt the air stuck in her throat. Thoros of Myr, with his flaming sword. Arya must have noticed Sandor’s fear when he was watching the burning tower. She knew his weakness, and now she was playing on it.

‘The red priest! The red priest!’ the Brotherhood scanned.

Sansa shot a pleading glance at Blackfish. Her uncle stood, frowning but silent. Her heart sank. She looked at the Hound, feeling the tears swelling in her eyes. Sandor was still standing still, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, like it did when he first saw the great tower of Twins taking fire. Then his eyes were on hers, and his expression changed abruptly.

‘Bugger that,’ he rasped. ‘Don’t cry over me, girl. Where’s your fraud of a priest, little she-wolf? I’m ready to take his head off if you hate him so much.’

‘It’s you I hate!’ Arya shouted.

‘It’ll make small difference to him.’

***

The trial was held in the training grounds, in the shadow of the burnt tower. Sansa was standing, gripping her greatuncle’s hand, while the fighters were circling each other watched by hundred eyes.

‘Why are they doing this to me, Uncle?’ she whispered. ‘Why do they want to take my protector from me?’

‘It’s not really about that, though they do hate the Lannisters and their servants,’ Uncle Brynden answered quietly. ‘I’ve heard the mutterings. They wouldn’t oppose me directly, but the Brotherhood would much prefer me going with you to the North rather then staying here. If something happens to Clegane, I would have to go with you. So they must have grabbed the chance. Better if it’s dealt with now, while it is not yet out of our control.’

 _‘Not out of control?’_ Sansa thought weakly.

Thoros of Myr looked more like a pink priest now. His head was still bald, but his clothes were faded and battered, and his shape was closer to twig than to pear like it was at King Robert’s court. Yet one thing remained unchanged. Lady Stoneheart used almost all wildfire he had smuggled out of King’s Landing, but apparently he still had enough remnants to set his sword aflame for this battle.

The Hound cursed and grunted and slashed, but Sansa could see him rush and reel every time the flames got near. With a regular weapon Thoros of Myr would no match for him, but the flaming blade kept the Hound at bay, and the red priest did fought for his life. He knew he wouldn’t stand the direct cut by Sandor’s sword, so he dashed and twirled, trying to catch the big man from the flanks and set his leather armor ablaze. Every time the priest got too close Sansa gasped, and the Brotherhood exulted. They danced and circled and whirled, and there seemed to be no end to it. The Hound's lank black hair was plastered to his brow in a sheen of sweat.

 _‘He is going to die,’_ she thought, panicking. _‘Thoros will exhaust him, and then kill him!’_

But the next time the burning sword met the cold one, there was a loud clang and the Thoros’s blade snapped in half. The Hound backed out of the way of flaming fragment.

His next strike left Thoros with a useless hilt in his hands.

The Hound leapt finally ahead and gave the red priest a smack on the head with the flat of his sword. Thoros dropped on the ground like a sack of turnips. The Hound put the blade to his throat and looked up at Sansa.

‘Leave him be,’ she ordered.

Sandor nodded and sheathed his longsword.

***

‘He was guilty, I know he was. He killed Mycah. He did. He _did._ ’

‘He did,’ Sansa agreed bleakly.

‘Then why did the gods proved him innocent?’ Arya raged. ‘If they are so blind, I’ll kill him myself. I will!’

‘I’m sorry about Mycah,’ Sansa said, trying to lead the conversation away from the dangerous ground. Not that she thought Arya would actually manage to kill Sandor, but she didn’t want to give it a try. One time was quite enough. ‘But his death is not Sandor’s fault. It's Joffrey's... and mine. I lied about what happened at the river.’

‘Why did you do that?’ Arya demanded.

Sansa smiled sadly.

‘You never were much of a lady, were you?’ she said. ‘I was to be Joffrey’s lady wife. A good wife is expected to support her husband.’

Arya snorted.

‘And I loved him.’ Sansa added bitterly. ‘I thought him a valiant young prince, and a strong and just king some day.’

‘And now you love the Hound,’ Arya said suddenly. ‘Oh, don’t give me this face. I saw how you look at him.’

Sansa was still staring at her sister blankly.

‘How could you?’ Arya grimaced. ‘He’s ugly. He’s evil. And a murderer.’

‘He saved my life.’

‘I don’t believe it!’

‘He did. And he spirited me away from King’s Landing when I asked him. He knew he would be branded as a traitor, he knew my brother will throw him in the dungeon, but he still did it. And he has always been kind to me.’

Arya was still looking at her as if she just confessed of kissing a toad, or worse, eating one. But she said nothing. Instead, she reached to pet her wolf, her lips a thin line.

***

The door to her room opened so suddenly it startled her. She glanced up and saw Sandor, who had an unusual indecisive look about him. It seemed like he wanted both to step into the room and to retreat, closing the door from the other side.

She stood up, dreading some bad news, anxious something went amiss.

He entered the room, closed the door behind him and held his hand up.

‘Don’t you start that kissing business,’ he warned her.

‘I wasn’t going to,’ she assured him though her heart gave a mad jolt at the thought.

For some reason her answer made him angry. He frowned, and the corner of his mouth twitched unpleasantly.

They stood in silence for a long moment.

‘You cried,’ he finally said.

She nodded. His eyes were still boring into hers, as if he was waiting for the explanation. Doesn’t he understand?

‘I cannot lose you. I lost too much already.’ She wanted to say more, to tell him how much his presence mattered to her, comforted her. But something stiffened in her throat. She was trying to swallow this tight knot down, when suddenly he rushed across the room towards her. She thought he meant to embrace her, but instead he went on one knee in front of her.

‘Never worry, little bird.’ His voice was hoarse and somewhat muffled, as if he was speaking through gritted teeth. ‘You’ll get back that frozen hell of yours. I’ll kill them all for you.’

She extended her hand to touch his good cheek, but stopped herself just in time.

‘Why?’ she whispered.

This startled him.

‘Why what?’ he asked blankly.

‘Why no kissing business? You liked kissing me. I can tell.’

The Hound was back on his feet again. His eyes darted towards the door, but something in her face must have told him he’d not get away that easily. Then he turned to her and gave her a dark look.

‘Aye, little bird, I liked kissing you. Show me a man who wouldn’t’.

‘And before,’ she pressed on. ‘When we were on our way to Riverrun. I was younger then, but I still remember you kissing me in the barn.’

‘Listen, what is this chirping about?’ Sandor demanded angrily. ‘Do you enjoy making me look a fool? Like in that damn song you love so well?’

‘I want to understand why you’re so angry about it,’ she replied, strangely calm.

‘Oh, you want to _understand_ ,’ he sneered. ‘Well, maybe this is the time for you to stuff some real things into that pretty head of yours. Something of real world. I want to fuck you. Ah, now you went pale. A word not so much to your liking?’

Sansa braced herself. It was, indeed, not a nice word. Not a word to say to a lady. She thought he was going say he loved her. But then, knights only said things like that in songs, and life was no song.

‘It hardly comes as a surprise to me after the Gates of the Moon.’ she answered boldly, and saw a flicker of doubt behind his grey eyes.

‘Oh, you know this, do you? And you still ask me why I’m angry?’

‘I thought if I gave you a kiss it would be easier for you. You’d know I...’ she paused, looking for words, ‘... I like you, too.’ She remembered his mouth, his hot kisses, his hands on her body. She blushed.

He looked at her incredulously.

‘Easier?’ he gave a short bark of laughter. ‘ _Easier_? I want to grab you and tear those pretty clothes off you and take you right here on the floor. And you believe you coming near and pressing against me and letting me believe for a moment that you’re _mine_ will make it easier? No, little bird. It will make it a bloody torture.’

Sansa frowned. She never thought it was that complicated. But then, didn’t she feel the sheer strength of his desire for her? Wasn’t it the main reason why she almost allowed him to have her maidenhead? His zeal captivated her.

Then a new thought occurred to her. It was not a nice thought. It was actually a quite malicious thought. A proper lady would never act upon it.

‘You liked scaring me in King’s Landing,’ she said, stepping closer to him. ‘It gave you joy. You knew it was a torture to me, but you still did it.’

She never initiated that kiss. It was him who pulled her closer and claimed her lips. She moaned into his mouth, giving herself away to the warm feeling of his arms around her. She needed to be held so badly.

This kiss was different from all the others they shared so far. Every time before he was rushed and hungry, grasping and groping, his mouth greedy, his hands demanding. This kiss was tender and gentle, reminding her of the times in King’s Landing, when he was wiping the blood from her lips after Joffrey ordered ser Blount to hit her. The kiss was still somewhat harsh, mostly due to the burnt side of his mouth, but it was not fierce. It was almost as if he was saying sorry.

And he broke off first. He stepped away from her, avoiding her eyes. She took his big hand in hers, stroking his palm lightly.

‘I cannot bed you,’ she mused. ‘I cannot bed anyone unless I wed them. And I cannot wed you either. I’m a queen, and you’re a mere lord.’

The Hound snorted.

‘I don’t need you to rub it in, little bird,’ he rumbled darkly.

‘But this may change,’ she went on softly. ‘When we’re in Winterfell. When we’re home. When we’re safe.’ She lifted her chin. ‘We shall see.’

He stared at her in disbelief.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I just remembered one thing Lord Baelish told me once. Petyr Baelish was banished for aspiring for the hand of Catelyn Tully, yet Lord Paramount of the Trident married Lady Lysa Arryn.’

‘What does this dead brat have to do with anything?’

‘Win me Winterfell, Sandor,’ she told him quietly. ‘And then we shall see.’


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless AU. Sansa's return to the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s been awfully long. The only thing I can say is Boltons. I cannot stand Boltons. I cannot abide Boltons. And now I had a whole chapter full of them. I felt like Stannis trying to make his way to Winterfell and burying himself deep into the snow instead. I had to dig myself out after each step I took. I do not claim I did a great job, but I do hope it’s passable.
> 
> Aaaanyways. The two last chapters of ‘What little birds do’ are coming. Beware.

‘You’ve come too late, my lady,’ lord Manderly told her. ‘Roose Bolton holds the North. His bastard has cleared Moat Cailin of ironborn. Now lord Bolton is to march for Winterfell, to see his son wed. The Northern lords are with him, Ryswells and Dustins, Cerwyns and Tallharts, Locke and Slates and Flints...’

‘But not you,’ Sansa pointed out. 

‘I was summoned. I’m just too old and slow and stout to make my departure in a hurry.’ 

This much was true. Sansa has never seen a man half so enormous. Lord Manderly looked like a person who can live through long winter with no other food than snow and come out of it a normal-sized man. 

‘But Roose Bolton expects me to come,’ the fat lord added. ‘And I will.’’

Sansa’s heart sunk. 

‘I... I hoped I could call the banners’, she said weakly. Brynden Blackfish’s plan turned out to be a bit too unrealistic, after all. ‘To raise an army and fight lord Bolton in the field.’

The lord of the White Harbour shook his head, which was quite a show on itself, taking that he had no apparent neck.

‘There are no men to answer your call,’ he said. ’The bravest and the strongest left with your brother. The most stubborn turned to Stannis. The rest rallied with Boltons. Don’t get me wrong. the Dreadfort lords are not loved. Nobody will mourn them should they perish. But Boltons are strong, and people are not ready for another war. They are too exhausted by the last one.’

‘I’m their Queen,’ Sansa whispered.

‘You have this honour, aye. But honour will not make them fight for you. Nor will the promises, nor will the pride. There is only one thing that would, and you don’t have it.’

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Food,’ lord Manderly replied. ‘Winter is coming, and the North is starving... yet you have nothing to feed it with.’

Sansa was stricken. She has returned home at last, only to find out she was helpless to do anything for it.

‘Alas, these are not all the bad news I carry for you,’ the fat lord continued. ‘It is believed that lord Roose holds Arya Stark. That’s why he is making for Winterfell right now. To see his bastard wed Ned Stark’s younger daughter.’

‘But this is not true! Arya is here, with me!’

‘Or so you claim. Roose Bolton says otherwise. The rumours will give his position a shake, no doubt, but no more than that. He’ll ask you to prove your claim. He’ll invite you to come to Winterfell and present your sister.’

‘I will not go to him,’ Sansa said levelly. ‘He’ll snatch me and most likely weds me to his son.’

‘Good call, little bird,’ she heard the Hound mutter behind her.

‘Going to him would be most unwise,’ the fat lord agreed. ‘But you might have no other choice. Unless you’re willing to return to the Vale for swords. The moment Bolton knows of your presence here he’ll dispatch a raven inviting you to join him.’

Sansa took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders.

‘I could spread the word that lord Bolton is a traitor,’ she said. ‘He killed my brother.’

Lord Manderly smiled sadly.

‘It may win people on your side. But then, it may not. Roose knows how to make rumour mill work too. Some are already whispering that the Red She-Wolf of the Twins has no mercy, neither for old, nor for women, nor for suckling babes.’

‘So, you say I turn myself over to Boltons or go back South to seek support?’ _Looks like I’ll have to marry one of the Vale lords after all._ ‘Or renounce my claim to the North altogether? Is that your advice?’ Sansa did her best to keep the bitterness out of her voice, but did not quite succeeded. She liked lord Manderly. He made her feel she was with family at last. She liked White Harbour. It felt like home. But it was all lies, as everything in her life.

The big man in front of her gave her a smile that reminded her suddenly of Littlefinger.

‘No.’ 

***  
‘This is madness, girl, you know it.’

The she-wolf merely looked at him. The glimmer of steel was in her eyes, the hardness of stone, the smothering smoke of hatred.

‘This is the only way,’ she said.

Behind him, Stranger shifted uneasily. He did not neigh, not ever, but he did give out a soft snorting sound. The huge war stallion was nervous. Sandor stroked the beast’s neck to silence him. The snort came again, from the distance this time, accompanied by the thump-thump of the hooves beating the snow. 

‘They are coming,’ the she-wolf said. Then her face went blank, her eyes empty, her cheeks pale. Her knees gave way, and she sagged into the snow. Sandor swore under his breath, wondering if he should pick her up and put her on Stanger’s back. He may not have time to do it later. But he didn’t want to disturb her in her... doing.

The riders drew closer. He could already see a couple of heavily-armored knights in the head of the column. One bore the two crossed axes of House Dustin, the other the flayed man of Dreadfort. Behind them came a sturdy-looking wagon, then another one, and then more riders. Sandor could easily count thirty of them. A dozen more rode with their lord, with the pink-black banner flapping in the wind above them. _Too many_ , he thought grimly. _Too well-armed, too well-trained, too..._

He did not have time to finish the thought.

Light grey shadows appeared out of the forest from both sides of the road. The horses under the heavily-armored knights shrieked violently and tried to get rid of the riders. One prevailed. Its owner collapsed headfirst into the pile of snow, while the horse bolted and ran into the woods. Behind it, the turmoil unfolded, edged with red and grey.

‘WOLVES!’ people shouted. ‘TO ARMS! WOLVES!’

Sandor found himself gripping the hilt of his sword. He had always liked dogs, but these were no dogs, not even remotely so. These were beasts, savage and merciless, and she was the worst of them.

He could see the grey shapes charging the riders fearlessly. Many jumped forward only to be cut down, slashed and pierced and butchered, but they took their killers down with them oft than not, and the havoc they wrought among the horses did not make fighting the grey devils any easier. 

She loped from behind Sandor, a huge grey monster the size of Stranger. The wolves were unnatural, with their complete lack of fear, but their pack leader looked like a demon from hell when she descended on her enemies. _The demon of frozen hell, full of icy ashes._

The giant she-wolf leaped, and leaped, and leaped again, and that was enough to close the distance between her and the lord under the pink-black banner. The lord barked a command, but his men were locked in struggle with their four-legged enemies, so he met her alone, his blade unsheathed, his features calm, his pale eyes narrowed, his left hand tugging hard at the reins to make his horse stand still.

When she charged, he hacked, and hacked again, and if she were a normal wolf that would be the death of her. But the huge beast was too clever by half. Somehow she managed to stop her movement in the air and to land back almost on the same spot she started at, only to rush right past, brushing the lord’s horse’s right flank. The mare moved madly, trying to dodge, stumbled upon a boulder covered by snow and collapsed, taking the pale lord with her. 

A heartbeat later, the snow went red.

‘WINTERFELL!’ came the cry from right beside him.

Sandor’s head jerked right. The she-wolf stood straight, her hands balled into fists, her eyes two grey slits.

‘Are you mad, girl?’ he hissed. ‘Didn’t we agree you keep your mouth shut? Now pray they didn’t hear you or else...’

They did. He saw people throwing glances in their direction. The snow-laden branches of the thick bushes still covered them, but now their presence was known. Sandor grabbed the girl, tossed her onto the horseback, threw himself into the saddle behind her, and dug the spurs deep into the stallion’s flanks.

Stranger galloped between the trees, the frozen soil cracking and breaking under his hooves. Behind them, a howl rose, wild and maddening and fierce. Sandor didn’t look back, but he knew the pack has followed. 

***

He could hear barking of the bitches, curt and gruffy, the sound of dogs in hot pursuit. The hounds chasing the Hound, how droll is that? No less than three of them still, he reckoned. There have been seven when he first heard them, before the giant she-wolf and her pack fell behind to lead the chase on the false trail. It’s been an hour since then, and the bitches were back on track.

And behind dogs, the riders.

It was all he could hope for, the Bastard to rush after him with his bitches and his Boys, leaving the rest behind. Sandor has heard enough of Ramsay Bolton to know this hope is not baseless. Yet now they were closely at his heels, and lord Manderly’s train remained hours away. Sandor still had a couple of hours before sunset, but he doubted he would need them. This will have to be over soon.

 _The girl_ , he thought. _I should send the girl ahead._ It will not do if they caught them both, though it was the she-wolf’s own fucking fault. If only he had a rope to bind the little brat tightly to the horse to make sure she won’t do anything wild and stupid. Alas, he had no means and no time.

Somewhere behind, the short bark turned into furious growl, and then into high-pitched yelp. _Two._

The girl in his hands jerked. ‘They are getting close,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

It was rumoured the Bastard of Bolton had trained his bitches to kill wolves. They certainly proved able. Most of the pack has perished in the chase. Yet the monstrous direwolf was unharmed, taking the hounds one by one as she took their master’s father.

_She’ll get us rid of the four-legged beasts, but not the two-legged ones. Those fall on my lot._

The girl stirred in his arms. ‘We need to find a good fighting spot.’

‘That will be a treetop for you.’ _Like I am going to let you fight. If any harm comes to you, I won’t need Boltons to skin me alive. Your own sweet sister will do that._

When the hunters finally caught up with their prey, they found him afoot, standing with his back to a giant oak tree. As soon as the riders glimpsed him they broke into a semi-circle, surrounding him, hooting with glee at seeing him dismounted. There were seven of them, brutal-looking thugs, with a young man in the center, clad in black and pink, his eyes two colorless pits on his face, two chips of dirty ice.

‘I like his helm,’ the Bastard announced. ‘Bring it to me when you’re done with him. Preferably with his head still inside.’

The horses of the capturers didn’t share their desire to approach him, though. Sandor saw the animals’ eyes go wide and wild, their hooves dig into the frozen ground, refusing to move further. _Those horses have more brains than their masters. They know the smell of the wolf behind me. They fear her._ One by one, the men had to dismount, all but their leader.

‘Your monster of a wolf killed all my girls,’ a bead of saliva glittered in the corner of Ramsay Bolton’s mouth when he spoke. ‘Let’s see if Boys prove any better.’

They jumped him all at once, six of them. First came a squat, thick-limbed man armed with a dagger. He was followed closely by a fair-haired youth who for some reason imagined a whip could be an adequate weapon against a longsword. _Peasants._ Sandor slashed, felt the blade to bite its way through the flesh and bone, and laughed.

The boyish whip-carer dropped on his knees, howling in pain and spraying blood everywhere. His hand fell next to him, dying the snow red. But the squat brute retreated with his shoulder barely scratched, having dodged early enough to catch only the tip of the longsword cutting through his leather vest.

‘I should have taken my longbow,’ Ramsay sneered. ‘Father said Young Wolf looked like a pincushion when they finished him. Mayhaps I should have used the chance to master the trick.’

Sandor paid him no mind. The five remaining men were creeping at him, daggers at their hands. There was little they could do to him from where they were, yet they will be able finish him easily if any one of them gets inside his longsword. They seemed to know it, too. He needed to be quick. 

The capturers’ horses whinnied wildly. The two animals that were left untethered bolted, running towards the fighters this time. One galloped so close it knocked one brute down, the foul-breathed one with his mouth full of rotting teeth. The very same moment Sandor leapt at his assaulters, his movements lightning-fast, his blade singing the song of blood and death.

Behind them, and in front of him, Bastard’s big destrier dashed, screaming, as the huge direwolf swept on it from behind. The beast managed to bite the stallion in the rear, but then the horse turned, prancing, beating the air with its front legs. One hoof caught the direwolf between the eyes sending her back squealing. Ramsay Bolton let out a shout of joy: ‘You got the bitch, Blood!’ The Bastard was tugging at the reins hard to keep his saddle; as it turned out, a little too hard. The horse reared up even more... and fell, tumbling backwards. The boy proved nimbler than his father; he shoved himself out of the saddle a heartbeat before the horse collapsed.

When he scrambled to his feet again, Ramsay Bolton found himself facing Sandor Clegane. Bastard’s lips curled in a feral smile, his pale eyes as wild as any animal’s. His blade was rusty brown from the blood of wolves he finished during the chase.

Sandor blocked the first blow in the air and grunted, having to take a step backwards. _Ferocious_ , he thought, _but swinging his sword like a butcher hacking meat._ Sandor Clegane was no novice to fighting butchers. His brother was the deadliest butcher alive.

Yet this one was not much worse. The two men cut and slashed, struck and parried, never taking their eyes off each other. 

Suddenly, Ramsay jerked and staggered. In the middle of his right thigh the leather of his breeches rose and tore, letting out a sharp, narrow tip. The snow under him was turning red fast. _The girl_ , Sandor realized. _That must have been the girl._ Bastard’s sword took an aimless flail, giving the Hound a long-awaited chance to strike. 

Ramsay Bolton fell heavily on one knee. His sword arm hung limp and useless, cut almost to the bone, but he snatched his sword with his left and was now brandishing it wildly. And sure enough, the she-wolf was behind him, dancing away and aside swiftly to avoid the blow. _She did kill people before._

‘Who are you, you little shit?’ the Bastard spat, jerking to get back to his feet and failing. 

‘I’m Arya Stark’, the girl replied, her voice thick with rage. ‘And you’re a dead man.’

***  
 _‘Let my little sister not be harmed, I have just got her back, I cannot lose her again, please, please...’_

The weirwood stood silent, listening. Sansa could almost feel it drinking down the words like they were blood. As of late, she could not think of anything but blood. Ever since she agreed to this crude, unnatural, treacherous deed lord Manderly suggested.

He didn’t want to tell her first. He said he’d rather discuss the details with her sworn shield. But Sansa would have none of it. She already chose to be ignorant once, when she blindly took lord Brynden’s advice to marry a Frey. She would not fall for this again. If there was blood to be shed, she needed to be aware of it beforehand. She was a queen. She had duties.

When lord Manderly told her what he had in mind, Sansa took a step away from him, aghast.

‘Arya is just a little girl!’ she told him, her lips oddly numb. 

‘Is she?’ the fat lord asked gravely. ‘I thought her to be a little warg. And her wolf... I’ve heard much and more about this beast. Gave Freys quite a hassle, even before you came to roast them, didn’t she?’ 

‘There is no honour in such tricks!’

‘Honour?’ Lord Manderly repeated. ‘Is it what you want to give to the man who murdered your brother?’ 

‘My father would never do such a thing!’

‘Your father is dead, as you are very well aware. Lord Eddard was indeed an honorable man, but the thing is, when you play the game of thrones, you need to use all the pieces, not only the ones that move straight. Your enemy would not have a heartbeat of hesitation before doing what I suggest you to do. Listen to me, Lady Stark. You have no army. You have no strength. You either use the means you have, or you lose your crown. Along with your maidenhead, if you are lucky, or simply with your head, if you are not. The choice is yours.’

She stood numb, looking at the fat man in front of her, wondering if there ever be an end to it. The world felt like an empty chasm filled with lies and dread and blood, and there was no way up. _Sandor was kind to me in King’s Landing_ , she thought. _I thought his words were harsh and hateful, but in truth he tried to spare me the worst._

‘Arya cannot go alone,’ she finally managed.

‘And she will not.’

A large red leaf brushed against her cheek, then dropped on the ground, looking like a big bloody hand. _‘Sansa,’_ the wind whispered. She sighed, mopped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown and stood up. 

‘I am of the North,’ she said, ‘and to the North I come. Let them call me the Bloody She-Wolf if they must. I’m Sansa of House Stark, and I’m coming home.’

***

They arrived all together, Ryswells and Cerwyns and Tallharts, Umbers and Slates and Flints, Lady Dustin and old Lord Locke. Sansa met them, standing ankle-deep in snow, her gown white and grey, her head high, her auburn tresses tangling on the wind. Lord Manderly’s men stood behind her, and Sandor took his usual place at her right shoulder. He came back two hours prior, along with Arya and Nymeria, bringing the tides as red as the sunset above. His armor was dented, his arm bleeding, but he barely gave her a chance to attend to his wound, and he never bothered to change his clothes. _Mother save me. He is all covered in blood and dirt and sweat; how come I’m looking at him and I am breathless, yearning for him, proud of him?_

‘Lady Stark,’ said Roger Ryswell. ‘We have heard rumours of your return.’

_Rumours? I sent you ravens._

‘I am glad you answered my summon, lord Ryswell.’ 

Ser Roger’s face flushed, but was it a sign of anger or embarrassment she could not tell. Sansa knew Ryswells were the first House to declare for Roose Bolton when he was named the Warden of the North. All four branches, all four quarrelsome cousins. Ryswells were bound to House Bolton by marriage. Yet lord Manderly said Boltons were little loved...

‘I did not come in answer to your summon, lady Stark,’ lord Ryswell admitted. ‘I came to _find_ an answer. There was a murder.’

‘Tell me more,’ she prompted him calmly.

‘We have a reason to believe it was your people who set a pack of wolves against the Warden of the North, the late Lord Roose Bolton.’

Sansa could feel people looking at her, watching her reaction. She never lowered her eyes, staring straight into Lord Ryswell’s face.

‘You came to know if Roose Bolton was killed by my command? Yes, he was.’ 

The crowd went silent. There were hundreds of people around, and Sansa couldn’t hear as much as a sigh from anybody.  
.  
‘There is just one thing where you’re mistaken,’ she continued. ‘It wasn’t murder. It was justice.’

This time it was lord Rodrik Ryswell who found his voice first.

‘Justice?’ he repeated. ‘How so?’

‘Roose Bolton killed my brother Robb. In the Twins, he turned against his rightful lord. That was murder, lord Ryswell.’

This time people started whispering all around. But Sansa did not allow them to come up with new questions.

‘I know what you’ve heard of me,’ she said. ‘The Red She-Wolf of the Twins, they call me. They claim I kill helpless women and murder children.’

‘Is it not true?’ someone asked.

She didn’t as much as flinch.

‘I saw lots of Freys dying, this part is true,’ she said, looking straight into the eyes of Rodrik Ryswell. His stern face remained impassive, but she thought she saw the corners of his mouth quiver a little. ‘As for the rest... rumours are rumours. When I was in King’s Landing, I’ve heard the tidings of battles my brother fought. It was told Robb defeated Steffon Lannister with an army of wolves.’ She waited for the crowd to digest the news. ‘After the slaughter, it was said, the northmen feasted on the flesh of their dead enemies.’ This got her an outburst of shouts and curses. ‘ It was rumoured my brother used some vile sorcery. But I knew better than to believe it.’

The crowd muttered again, but it was a sound of consent.

‘Freys betrayed my brother,’ Sansa continued, fighting back the tears that came to her eyes, unbidden. ‘But now Robb’s death is avenged. Whatever happens, House Frey will never rise again.’

This time, Rodrik Ryswell smiled openly.

‘The Queen in the North!’ came the same voice that was asking for truth moments ago. Sansa felt light headed. But before more men had time to join the call, another voice cut through the clamour.

‘I saw the wolves.’ The speaker was a woman, dark-haired and tall, clad all in black. _Lady Dustin._ ‘They attacked our train. They were not frightened by men. A huge monster the size of a horse tore Roose Bolton’s throat out. If this was not sorcery, what was it?’

‘My brother Robb did have a wolf,’ Sansa reminded her. ‘So did I, before Lannister killed her. So does my sister Arya. Her Nymeria is still with her.’

All eyes were on Arya when she stepped ahead, Nymeria towering at her side.

‘Roose Bolton never had my sister,’ Sansa said. ‘He lied to you, like he lied to my brother. He was a traitor, and his son was a monster. They are no more.’

‘The Queen in the North!’ came the shout. This time, hundreds of voices joined in. ‘The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!’

‘So what would you have of us now?’ asked the woman in black. Then, as she felt the eyes of the crowd on her, she added: ‘Your Grace.’

‘First, we go to Winterfell,’ Sansa proclaimed, her heart fluttering at her chest like some mad bird. ‘I want my home restored and rebuilt, before the worst of winter is on us.’

The crowd murmured their agreement. Sansa raised her voice.

‘But to live through the winter, we need food,’ she proclaimed. ‘For this, we’ll march for Dreadfort. I know the castle to be well-provisioned. Lord Bolton planned to see another spring.’

‘And who will lead the attack, Your Grace?’ asked lord Roose Ryswell, probably aspiring to get the honour for himself.

Sansa smiled.

‘Lord Clegane.’


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the long journey.

Sandor flung the pouch on the table. It clonked heavily.

‘What is this?’ Sansa asked apprehensively. Her army has returned from Dreadfort, just before the heavy snows heralded the end of autumn. Storming the Bolton stronghold turned out to be a bloody affair, so now she half-expected the pouch to drip.

‘My tourney winnings,’ he said. ’Whatever is left of them. The elephant lord had the right of that. You’ll need to feed your people.’

‘Tourney?’ She repeated, uncomprehending. Was there a tourney?

‘The Hand’s tourney. Your father’s. In King’s Landing.’

‘But... but..,’ she stuttered. ‘It’s been so long...’ She did remember him winning forty thousand golden dragons, but she never imagined he had any of the money still.

‘Oh, it was taken from me,’ Sandor snorted. ‘When your brother’s men searched me after we arrived to Riverrun. Robb Stark was too proud to nick it, but he said he’d store it for me in a safe place, now that half the castle knew I had it. He didn’t want any accidents. And then he got himself killed, and your uncle knew nothing about my gold. I could only wonder how the money ended up in Dreadfort, if not for that Frey cow. She said it was her dowry.’

 

***

A couple of serving wenches scrubbed him clean. He was surprised when he realized both of them were actually eyeing him approvingly and smiling at him. He grinned at them. They didn’t look abashed by it. On the contrary, they leered at him, their smiles getting wider, their touches bolder. He marveled at how the place of Sansa’s army leader made the common people love him.

He dismissed them, preferring to dress on his own. Then he wandered towards her chambers. He didn’t mean to stand guard tonight. Someone else had this duty now, though Sandor suspected he’d miss these long night hours of listening to surroundings while picturing little bird in her warm bed, sleeping, her pretty eyes closed, her auburn tresses tangled, her pink lips slightly parted.

He wondered if she was ever going to keep her promise. He damn well kept his. Winterfell is hers. He recalled Sansa dropping on her knees at the castle great gates the day they arrived. The stronghold stood broken, ruined, burnt, covered with snow and soot and ashes, yet the girl looked at it like it met her in its full splendour. Tears were trickling down her face, but for the first time the sight did not make Sandor want to hit something.

He knew it was stupid to still cherish any sort of hope. _I should know better than to expect kings and queens to be true to their word._ Back in the Twins, she responded to his kisses eagerly, she even talked about _bedding_ him... yet for him it only meant more trouble. It’s been ages since he had a proper fuck. Nothing to speak of since leaving King’s Landing. In Riverrun, women were way too scared of his face, and he didn’t want to get on the wrong side of the King of the North by imposing himself on them. In the Moon Gates, the Royce girl kept casting him lingering looks, but first he was too busy watching Littlefinger, and then this whole tabard business happened leaving him mortified and seething at the same time. He might have gotten some pleasures in the White Harbour, though, if not for the promise little bird gave him at the Twins. She spoke of bedding, and the mere thought of her coming to his bed willingly made him discard any other girl who happened to come by.

But this couldn’t last forever. On their march to Dreadfort he finally emptied his seed into some washerwoman, only to realize it brought him no relief. He wanted Sansa, not some random wench.

When he entered her chamber, the girl turned and smiled at him. She looked every inch a queen - tall, beautiful, dressed in silk and velvet. The glass gardens of Winterfell might be smashed, but the main flower of the castle was in full bloom. Sansa has always been lovely, but now her beauty has truly become breathtaking. _If we were still in King’s Landing, Cersei would have poisoned her just for looks._ Yet he knew it was not quite so. It was Winterfell that gave Sansa’s features this happy glow, her posture this proud outline.

‘My lady,’ he said, much to his own surprise. He never called her that. She has always been little bird for him. But now he looked at her and felt the old nickname to be somehow inappropriate. When did this little girl become a woman?

‘My lord.’ She matched his cool tone. ‘So good of you to come see me again so soon.’ They conversed mere hours ago, upon the northern army’s victorious return to Winterfell, but she looked distant and reticent, with faraway look in her blue eyes. _The snow queen._

‘The time has come for me to thank you for all the services you did to our House,’ the girl said, and Sandor felt light-headed as if he just woke up after a massive loss of blood. _She does remember, then._

‘Do you think I want your words, girl?’ he grumbled.

She smiled a beautiful smile of a snow maiden.

‘Oh, you don’t want words, do you, Sandor Clegane,’ she said softly. And then she strode towards him, her movement graceful, her smile suddenly playful. ‘There is no need to look so frowned,’ she actually brushed the crease on his forehead with her deft fingers. He barely stifled the desire to bite her hand. Lightly.

‘You kept your promise,’ she whispered, her lips smiling, her eyes twinkling. ‘And I’ll keep mine. Tomorrow be sure to dress finely. This should pose no problem as Jeyne and I stuffed your wardrobe with new clothes. I’ll bestow Dreadfort on you before the whole court. I’ll also name you the Lord Protector of the North...’

‘Is this what do you think I want, girl?’ he rasped. ‘More titles?’

‘No. That’s what my people want. As for your _reward_... I won’t give it to you. I’ll let you take it for yourself.’ She lowered her eyes, and, just like this, it was his little bird standing in front of him, blushing.

Sandor had just had enough chirping and games he cared to stomach. Woman or no woman, queen or no queen, she was about to find out what happened if she teased a man for so long. He pulled the girl towards him and started kissing her. Only he had to stop when he felt her smiling into his lips.

‘What is it?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It just feels so _good_.’

 _Is she mocking me?_ Before he could answer, the girl stepped away, turned and raised her hands, lifting her hair and putting it all onto one shoulder. She was now standing with her back at him, giving him the perfect view of her long slender neck... and the laces of her gown.

Sandor reached out to them and was astonished to find his hands trembling.

He dreamt of fucking Sansa Stark for years. He almost fucked her in the Eyrie, and many times after, in his feverish fantasies. He hoped he’d get to bed her, he yearned for it. But now when it was happening he couldn’t believe it.

Sandor Clegane fucked plenty of women, never giving it a second thought. Yet now he was uncertain. What was perfectly normal to do with a whore, seemed completely inappropriate to do with Sansa Stark. She was so tender, so delicate, so… noble. How do you go about fucking a lady?

He was never good at undressing women, preferring for them to do the job themselves. Now, tugging clumsily at the laces of Sansa’s gown, he wanted nothing more than to tear the thing apart to get the girl out of it as soon as possible. But he knew it would be a wrong thing to do. If only these bloody fucking damned strings were not that tight...

The lacing finally gave way, and the blue silk pooled on the floor with a barest of whisper. Sansa turned to face him. She was left in a light white chemise, probably the same one he saw her in in the Eyrie. Back then he didn’t really pay much attention to it, but now he realized the shift was so thin he could see the pink of the girl’s body through it. Sandor’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Would you let me to take off your tunic?’ Sansa asked shyly.

He spared her the trouble by getting rid of the garment himself. The moment he was done she stepped closer and raised on her tiptoes to kiss him. The feeling of her bare arms against his shoulders was almost too much to bear, but it was nothing comparing to the feeling of her almost naked body pressed against his. He grunted, putting his arms around her and clasping her as tightly as he could.

Sandor heard her sigh and loosened his grip a little. Sansa sighed again, and ran her fingers down his naked chest. Her hands stopped at the belt of his breeches, uncertain. He stripped them off, trying vainly to repress the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

When he straightened again, Sansa Stark was staring, big-eyed, at his hardened manhood.

‘What did you expect, girl?’ he grumbled hoarsely. And now, of course, the girl will change her mind. Any moment now she’ll chirp some polite nonsense and back out.

‘I’m glad I’m here with you,’ Sansa said absently, ‘and not some lord I’ve never seen before the wedding.’

The next thing he knew was the feeling of her tender fingers on his cock.

Sandor inhaled so sharply the girl snatched her hand back and look up with the eyes full of fear.

‘Did I hurt you?’

As an answer he took her hand and placed it back where it was, covering it with his own fingers and moving it up and down. The pleasure was so intense he had to groan. Yes, this is it. He should content himself with fucking her hand and leave her maidenhead for some high lord to claim.

‘Wouldn’t you want me to take off my shift?’ Sansa asked.

This time Sandor did hear the tearing sound as he tugged at the cloth, but he was past caring. His little bird was fully in his arms, pink, auburn, blushing, naked as her name day. Her creamy skin was smooth and silky under his fingers, her flesh warm and yielding. He wanted to stop, to look, to drink down the sight of her, but succeeded only in pressing her tighter against himself.

‘Little bird,’ he muttered, while his hands wandered hectically around her body, fondling her firm teats, tracing the soft curves of her waist, slipping down her thigh into the thicket of flaming hair...

Sansa gasped. And Sandor almost growled - with longing, with anticipation, with long-restrained desire.

_She is wet. Seven save me, she is wet for me._

The girl licked her pink lips and glanced towards the featherbed.

He scooped her into his arms and almost threw her onto the bed in his rush to get down. His fingers found their way between her legs again, rubbing and fiddling. Sansa moaned and arched against him, and the next thing he knew he was spreading her legs with his knee. The girl didn’t seem to mind, and Sandor couldn’t bear to wait. He didn’t look her in the face and he hated himself for it, but he shoved himself inside her just the same.

She was so tight he almost came right there and then. He drove himself in, deep, then pulled himself out and dived deep again. It was better than any whore he ever had. The feel of her, the overpowering scent of her body, of her cunt, made him mad with lust he was suppressing for so long. He was fucking Sansa Stark, and there was not a thing in the world that could stop him now.

In his lusty haze, Sandor half-opened his eyes and accidentally looked his little bird in the eyes.

He stopped.

‘It hurts.’ He didn’t bother to make it a question. The pain was written plainly on her face.

Sansa nodded. Her cheeks were pale, her lower lip bright red where she has bitten into it, trying to stifle a cry.

He pulled himself out sharply, almost roughly. The sight of his bloodied cock didn’t make him feel any better. The overwhelming urge to shove it _right back in_ enraged him even more.

_Seven bloody hells._

His exhilaration evaporated, replaced by the piercing ache of a fresh burn. He wanted to kill somebody. He wanted somebody to kill him.

‘The hell with it,’ he said, standing up and going for his breeches.

‘Stop.’ Sansa called after him. Sandor froze. He knew an order when he heard it.

‘Stay,’ she commanded. ‘Come back here.’

He found himself lowering on the bed obediently. Sansa lifted her chin in a way that reminded him of her fierce little sister.

‘And don’t you dare ever leave me like this once again.’

‘I thought you didn’t like me torturing you, little bird,’ he muttered.

‘So don’t.’

He took his place next to her, wondering what she expects him to do. She would probably cringe if he touches her.

‘Hold me.’

Sandor hastened to obey. Little bird curled up in his arms with her head on his chest and her bare leg against his thigh. He stroked her back tentatively. She didn’t cringe.

‘I like it when you put your arms around me,’ Sansa said conversationally. ‘It feels safe.’

He kissed her hair.

‘I’m too big for you, little bird.’

‘You are just right. You are simply a little too... fast.’

‘I was fucking you too hard,’ he stated darkly. ‘No need to waste pretty words on me, little bird.’

‘Sansa,’ she said. He gave her a stare. ‘You just took my maidenhead. You can call me by the name.’

‘Sansa,’ he rasped. Her name was pretty, as pretty as she was.

She smiled and closed her eyes.

‘Say it again.’

‘Sansa,’ he repeated, and bent to kiss her.

This time he entered her slowly, taking care to hold his weight on his elbows. When he started moving, a small crease appeared on her forehead. He kissed it, and she threw her arms around his neck.

‘Sandor,’ she sighed.

A wave of heat rushed through his body. He sped up before he knew what he was doing, but this time the sound she made was more like a moan, not a gasp of pain. Sandor felt the current of desire return, swell, boil up, flooding him, swallowing him. The girl beneath him squirmed and arched, clutching at his shoulders, planting feverish kisses on his good cheek and neck.

‘Sansa,’ he breathed out again. She opened her strikingly blue eyes and looked him straight in the face.

‘I love you,’ she whispered.

Sandor groaned and spent his seed deep inside her.

***

‘You and I will be married on the morrow,’ Sansa informed him.

The man who was holding her gave her a weird look, and then his face went carefully blank.

‘I did tell you I cannot bed unless I wed,’ she reminded him.

‘Aye, you did,’ he agreed, his face still impassive.

‘You do not look happy.’

‘It’s not my happiness you ought to concern yourself with, little bird. Your own bannermen are the ones you should think about.’

‘I had two months to think about it, while you were busy sieging Dreadfort. I know what to do. I know what to say to them.’

She really did. For once in her life, Sansa Stark had a plan of her own.

‘And one more thing,’ she added, raising from the bed and paddling barefooted to the big cedar chest in the corner of the room. ’Be sure to wear this.’

He grinned at the sight of the familiar bundle of yellow silk in her hands.

***

‘Him?’ Hother Umber asked incredulously. The Greatjon Umber said nothing. Sansa bit down the sigh of relief.

‘Didn’t he proved himself in battle?’ she asked ser Hother. ‘Didn’t you take Dreadfort under his command?’

‘He certainly did, Your Grace, but he is a southerner, and a lowborn.’

‘My brother Jon writes me Alys Karstark has just wed a wildling,’ Sansa pointed out. She wished nothing more as Jon being here with her, but it was impossible, of course. He was Lord Commander on the Wall. He had duties. And anyways, he’d have to fly to get to Winterfell ahead of Stannis. ‘Surely the North has seen more uneven matches than me and lord Clegane.’

‘Alys Karstark is not Queen in the North,’ Rodrik Ryswell objected.

‘I must wed before Stannis comes here,’ Sansa replied calmly. ‘Otherwise, the Baratheon king will most definitely propose a match for me, and I don’t want the complications that will undoubtedly arise after my refusal.’

‘You can pick from any Northern family, Your Grace. Any of us would be honored to become your lord husband.’

The other bannermen announced their consent by hubbub of shouts:

‘Umbers!’  
‘Flints! Not the first time for Flints to marry Starks!’  
‘Ryswells!’  
‘Tallhart! Proud and free!’  
’Cerwyns! Honed and ready!’

Sansa sighed. She was ready for this, but it didn’t make the moment any more pleasant. She lifted her hand to calm the loudmouths, yet there were still murmurs and mutters when she started speaking.

‘You have just demonstrated the exact reason for me not to marry any of you, my lords,’ she proclaimed. That won her silence. Everybody was looking at her, waiting for her to explain herself. ‘Ambitions,’ she said. ‘I spent last two years watching what ambitions do to people. My lady mother persuaded my lord father to take the place of King’s Hand, because she wished to once see me on the Iron Throne. I shared her aspiration, so I did my best to please the prince I barely knew, and I lost my wolf for it. It cannot count all the things I lost since then. And I tell you: ambitions are for summer. For winter, I need a strong hand and an honest soul.’

‘Yet the man I chose to marry has more than honesty to recommend him. As much as I don’t like playing the game of thrones, closing my eyes won’t make it disappear. Sandor proved he can see through games and plots. Many times he told me the truth of what’s happening while others tried to feed me honey-coated lies. And, what is more, Sandor has no stomach for scheming. Whatever happens, I know I can count on whose side he’s on. Mine.’

***  
As her bannermen dispersed from the Great Hall, muttering and grumbling, Sandor grabbed her by the elbow unceremoniously and bent to whisper into her ear.

‘If I marry you,’ he hissed, ’I’ll become king, won’t I?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed carefully, turning to face him.

He grimaced.

‘Well, I know for sure that this is definitely not my place.’

‘Would you prefer this place to be taken by someone else then?’ she asked dryly. ‘Would you want me to marry a high lord instead? Some Ryswell, perhaps?’

His face darkened at the thought, as always. She thought he was going to swear, to curse her, her high birth and the high lords with their games. She was waiting for an outburst, but none came.

‘I’m just sayin’ I’m not the best man for the job is all,’ he grumbled at last.

‘Of course you are,’ she smiled. ‘The king is the one who leads his people into battle, and you’re good at that. Leave all the rest to your council to sort out.’

The corner of his mouth twitched.

‘I will leave it to my queen,’ he said. Somehow he still managed to sound like a soldier, not a husband and a sovereign.

‘You will,’ she agreed.

***

They were married the following afternoon in the godswood. Lord Manderly gave Sansa away, and Sandor grinned like a boy when he threw his cloak around her shoulders. From the look on Arya’s face one could tell that she disapproves, but at least the younger Stark girl didn’t try to stab the groom. The air in the godswood was strangely warm, and the mist was rising from the dark hot pools.

At first Sansa thought some snowflake has gotten into her eye. Why else would she see two Nymerias where there should have only been one? But then she realized the direwolf she’s looking at has much darker fur than Arya’s, and is much larger. The eyes of the beast were fiery green, not molten gold. And next to him stood a boy of six or seven, looking strong and tall for his years, with auburn hair so much like her own.

‘Rickon,’ she whispered, then cried aloud. ‘Rickon!’

The boy turned his head and studied her through the narrowed dark blue eyes for what seem the longest heartbeat in her life.

‘Mother!’ he exclaimed loudly and run to her.

She dropped on her knees just as he threw his arms around her and hugged her possessively.

‘Oh, my little baby brother,’ Sansa was sobbing, tears streaming down her cheeks, hands clutching at the precious boy who returned to her so unexpectedly. ‘My lost, my most wept-for, my wonderful baby _brother_. You’re here, you’re alive, and we’re home, home, home.’

The boy wiggled out of her embrace.

‘You’re _Sansa_ ,’ he told her, half-accusingly. ‘And you’re Arya,’ his eyes wandered at another sister. ‘And who is _he_?” he motioned towards Sandor. ‘I remember him! He mocked Robb!’

‘This is Sandor Clegane, my husband,’ Sansa risked a brief glance at the Hound and was surprised to find him grinning widely.

‘Your Grace,’ he said as he took a knee before the boy. The crowd around them burst into whispers. They understood the same moment Sansa did: with Rickon back, she was no longer the Queen of the North. Queen Regent, perhaps, but not for long. In any case, Sandor was no king. It seemed to please him enormously.

‘And where _is_ Robb?’ Rickon demanded. ‘Is he here? Did you bring him back from the South?’

‘No,’ she admitted, her throat suddenly tight. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t.’

‘Then you _should_ ,’ the boy declared. ‘Him, and Mother, and Father. Bring them all home. Winter is coming.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, if anybody wants to use the setting and to write Sansa and Sandor some more satisfactory smut than their awkward first time, they are welcome to it. My goal was to get Sansa from King’s Landing to Winterfell. My job here is done. I hope you enjoyed the ride:)


End file.
